


Venom Antiserum

by 99centdreams



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Curses, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Nicaise (Captive Prince) Lives, some gentle Nik
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 65,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28259772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/99centdreams/pseuds/99centdreams
Summary: Monsters are rarely born and mostly created by circumstance. Or by a curse.Damianos relinquishes his freedom to save a friend, but realizes that breaking a curse might be the only way to save two nations.Under those scales still beats a heart, however cold-blooded. Under the curse still sleeps a king, though not for much longer.Beauty and the Beast AU(guste lives)
Relationships: Damen & Nikandros (Captive Prince), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 71





	1. Nikandros

**Author's Note:**

> hellooooo i have not written a fic in like seven years so i'm probably rusty and my beta is grammarly so....forgive me - its another Beauty and the Beast AU but i couldn't help myself
> 
> first chapter is all Nikandros because i wanted to explore some gentle and kind Nik rather than just exasperated pissed-off Nik
> 
> next chapter will be Damen's POV

The sunlight was bright in Delpha at the apex of summer, with only airy wisps of clouds obscuring an otherwise unbroken expanse of sky. The Akielon infantry was marching east, taking advantage of the clear weather which held steady and hot. At the beginning of the march, the soldiers had been grateful for the gently rolling hills near Marlas, for the ocean breezes yet unfatigued by distance that still carried a tang of salt, for the softly waving grasses and packed topsoil that was gentle on sandaled feet. 

Now they marched in far northeastern Akielos - the hills here grew steeper, the grasses faded to scrubland with loose pebbled earth, and the troops had to navigate around the giant stone outcroppings that punctuated their route, all while enduring pebbles in their sandals.

Long days of intense sun allowed for increased visibility and more hours each day to travel. If the soldiers were fatigued from the grueling pace, they merely grumbled complaints into their bedrolls at night and rose the next dawn with fierce Akielon discipline.

Nikandros, Kyros of Delpha, rode a beast of a warhorse at the head of the infantry. He dressed in traditional Akielon soldier’s garb, with bare legs and arms and only a heavy cape and pin signifying his rank. The closer they came to their intended destination, the more Nikandros felt his anxiety spike. His horse seemed to translate the feeling to movement and tossed its heavy head, wanting to go faster than the pace of the footsoldiers. 

Nikandros tamped down his mount and his temperament. Arriving as a single soldier, he would be worthless, no matter his rank or leadership skills, or prowess with a sword. It was a helpless feeling, not one Nikandros wore comfortably. Mounted scouts and messengers galloped towards and away from him at an increasing frequency as they neared the eastern mountain range separating northern Akielos from Vask and Patras.

A month prior, a missive from the village of Tarasis had arrived with a heaving messenger, and Nikandros put the wheels of Delpha’s defense into motion. 

Raiders from the mountains were common in the east, so common that many villages had set up illegal trade with the mountain clans to avoid the theft of their livelihoods. The matriarchal mountain clanswomen were more than happy to oblige - their primary goal was always survival, not the razing of villages. 

Nikandros did not like the trade pacts and had even reported them to King Theomedes, as was his duty as Kyros. But the crown let the trade occur, as if more concerned about the lives of citizens than the lost pride of broken trade embargos. Nikandros saw Damen’s hand in that decision - Theomedes, even in old age, held a level of bloodlust prized by the Akielon old guard and he would not appreciate insubordination by his citizens, no matter how vulnerable their position.

Regardless, the message from Tarasis was different. The letter described male warriors with Vaskian coloration, outfitted with rough Akielon steel that was presumably stolen. They asked the village for nothing and slaughtered all they could find before vanishing again up into the foothills of the mountains.

Tarasis had a reasonable militia of retired Akielon soldiers, strong ranch hands, and metalworkers, along with a stone wall and watch outposts that were constantly manned. Enough fortification to repel a small raid, enough militia to evacuate citizens in case of a rare flood or a fire, but not enough to break steel with a skilled cavalry battalion that arrives under the cover of darkness with intent to kill. 

The missive quoted the account of a wall watcher, caught wide-eyed in the stone watchtower as the fire raged below, and forced to drink in every hideous detail of the destruction: Midnight saw over five hundred dead, militia and civilians alike, men, women, children, and the elderly, slain or burned alive in their homes. Those who fought back in the streets were sliced or speared through without prejudice. Entire fields of livestock were set alight and burned; sheep with thick wool coats caught fire and melted down to the bone. An incendiary fluid was poured down every street and alley, on all available doorsteps, and as the raid finally withdrew from the village, the final rider threw down his torch. 

Less than one hundred people survived the raid, and the whole of Tarasis became a pyre.

Nikandros had read the message through seven times, unable to move his body, yet unable to stop his eyes. When he finally wrenched his gaze away, he yelled for scribes and messengers, roused the garrison at Marlas, and prepared a force to march.

Nikandros liked linear plans, and had thus concocted one for his response to Tarasis:

⠀⠀⠀1. Send word to Ios and request Damianos at Tarasis. 

Damen would bring men, and he trusted Damen’s judgment. Damen would also know how to break the news of the raid to Theomedes and Kastor.

⠀⠀⠀2. Send orders to Makedon to bring his army to Marlas

Nikandros needed to go to Tarasis, both in his duty as Kyros and as an honor to the dead. Makedon and his forces would defend Marlas with valor and would alert the bannermen of Delpha to retain standby forces just in case. Makedon also had the worst temperament of any general; he did not need to be anywhere near Tarasis, lest he break rank and send a retaliatory force into the mountains. Leading Marlas temporarily would appease his honor.

⠀⠀⠀3. March to Tarasis and protect the survivors

The missive said that survivors were housed in the watchtowers, however, they were crowded and short of food. A few able-bodied survivors could hunt and gather; a single physician tended to wounds with wild herbs and water from a stream nearby. 

Nikandros’s soldiers would escort them to the next large village and Delpha’s coffer would pay for extended lodgings for everyone, giving them ample time to plan for their futures.

⠀⠀⠀4. Clear the destruction of Tarasis and, with Damen’s blessing, begin building a permanent fort settlement on the foundation of the village

It was no secret that Delpha’s forces were concentrated in the west, at Marlas. Such fortification in the east was not previously necessary, even though the east was bordered by three other nations: Patras was on friendly terms with Akielos, and the Vaskian border that barely brushed Akielos was pure mountain. The southeastern corner of Vere was wild as well, covered in a dense coniferous forest. The wood’s edge demarcated the eastern portion of Vere’s border with Akielos, but no army could reasonably amass there. 

Until now, the land had been quiet. But after this massacre, Nikandros saw the need for permanent troops in the area and a permanent place to house them. Knowing Damianos, he would agree with the assessment and could get Ios behind the idea of an eastern fort.

As Nikandros rode on, he reviewed the steps of his plan over and over, satisfied that all angles were covered but knowing there would need to be slight adjustments once they arrived at Tarasis. 

To the left of the marching army, the invisible line separating Akielos from Vere taunted Nikandros, and he felt that it him watched without eyes, spied infinitely into Akielos as far as the horizon would allow.

~~~~

Nearly three weeks into the march, a scout arrived to say that they approached Tarasis. Nikandros felt a heavy weight settle into his heart. He had assumed they were growing close because the border to Vere was now heavily forested, and the trees towered like a great wall in the distance. His feeling of being watched by the border only increased, and he wondered (not for the first time) if the raiders had come from the mountains at all. With any luck, the surviving watchman of Tarasis could provide answers that endless speculation could not.

A few hours after the scout, the infantry crested a steep hill and laid eyes on the ruins of Tarasis. The smell hit them when the wind shifted, and Nikandros heard several soldiers gagging or breaking lines to retch. It was a crack in their discipline, but Nikandros did nothing because his stomach roiled just the same. He turned to his second-in-command, a seasoned captain named Aktis, and ordered him to guide the infantry to the field beyond the wall of the village and make camp. Nikandros then dug his heels into his horse and thundered down the slope into Tarasis.

He raced through the front gate, where the charred remains of massive wooden doors clung uselessly to the stone. A bell sounded from the nearest watchtower and two large people slid down a newly constructed makeshift ladder to the ground below. Nikandros rode towards them and dismounted.

“It is an honor to receive you Kyros,” said a large man with a hefty beard as he bowed deeply. His companion followed suit, and Nikandros felt his stomach turn again.

“There is no need for such deference here in the face of this tragedy,” Nikandros said lightly. He noticed the vivid red burns streaking up the arms of the bearded man, and across the chest and shoulders of the muscular woman next to him.

Nikandros tied the reins of his mount to a charred stone pillar and then turned his full attention to the villagers. “I would be honored to know your names.”

“The honor is mine Kyros - I am Stavos,” replied the bearded man.

“Kyrina, Kyros,” said the woman with slight hesitation. “We are only survivors of the militia.”

Nikandros drew his mouth into the thin line and nodded. “Tell me what happened.”

The two traded off speaking and filled in details that horrified Nikandros. The livestock fields were set on fire first, which caused a panic and drew the militia members away from the front gate. The raiders broke through the gate with an unknown explosive and swarmed Tarasis before the militia had time to react. Raiders peeled away in ones and twos, galloping through the town, entering houses at random, and exiting with bloody swords. The village militia folded quickly in the darkness, and then the night erupted in bright fire, consuming every structure except those made of stone. 

Stavos and Kyrina were burned while pulling civilians from the flames. Nikandros thought it was a miracle that anyone survived at all. 

Since the attack, the villagers were indeed crammed in the two watchtowers, hungry and injured, but alive. Stavos, Kyrina, and several other adults had begun the process of burying the charred husks of corpses outside the village walls, but they had not gotten far with limited manpower. The haunted looks in their eyes sent a bolt straight through Nikandros’s chest.

“You are heroes, both of you, and every survivor here,” Nikandros said softly. “My army is drawing near to the walls, and starting tomorrow, we will take over the burying of the dead and cleaning inside the village. My physicians will tend to all survivors, and you will all have tents inside our camp until we can escort you to another village.”

“I am honored and humbled by your bravery.” Nikandros bowed deeply to them to emphasize his meaning. Stavos gaped and Kyrina flushed deeply, but both accepted it with pride. 

Nikandros left the pair to bring all survivors down from the watchtowers. He mounted his horse and rode through the charred streets of Tarasis. 

The scene was worse than described, and Nikandros did vomit over the side of his horse when he saw the village square. It was the last stand for the militia; bodies were piled high and they stank in the summer heat. Charred flesh was pecked to shreds scavenging birds. Nikandros swore loudly post-retch and wheeled his mount, riding hard to the gate, hoping that the villagers had amassed so he could escort them to camp and leave this place for the night.

By the time everyone settled in the Akielon camp, darkness had fallen, and the tents glowed from within. Nikandros sent his men to the watchtowers, set up a perimeter for the camp, and then visited the tents to give his condolences to each survivor. 

Nikandros spoke at length with Amyntas, the watchman who gave his account for the original missive, and he broached a troubling detail: Amyntas was positive that the raiders had been invisible before they entered Tarasis. 

It was an absurd idea at first, but the more details the watchman gave, the more alarmed Nikandros became. No one had seen anything, not even the guard dogs had barked. Usually, horses would be noticed, even in darkness, for miles away. The villagers often heard clapping pony hooves on stone from the mountain passes, indicating that the clanswomen were moving. But the night of the attack, no one heard anything or saw anything. The livestock fields seemed to spontaneously combust and the explosion at the gate was the first indication that an invading force was present at all - once the gate was blown open, riders streamed through in full view. The watchman called it unnatural and shivered with unseeing eyes.

Nikandros, as an experienced soldier and veteran of the battle at Marlas, knew battle magic when he heard of it, and battle magic always pointed to Veretian influence.

He always hated when his worst suspicions were confirmed.

The last tent of survivors held three children and an older woman. The woman and two of the children were heavily scraped and bruised, but otherwise unmarred. The third child looked to be about twelve - almost half of her body was bandaged by the physicians, including her forearms, across her chest and shoulders, and covering the right half of her face. If Nikandros had to guess, he would say that her eye on that side was probably not salvageable. 

“It is an honor, Kyros," said the older woman to Nikandros, and gestured to the burned girl. "Hypatia saved us."

“Saved what? The village is still gone,” the girl, Hypatia, snapped bitterly. “They’re all still gone. And now I’m deformed,” She raised her hand to her right eye and touched the bandage with trembling fingers.

The older woman opened her mouth, likely about to scold the girl for her manners in the presence of her Kyros, but Nikandros held up a large hand for silence. He knelt in front of Hypatia and gently took her small hand in his large one. Her functioning eye widened but she kept his gaze, too young yet to feel their power disparity.

“You are a hero, Hypatia, whether you believe it or not. To your family, to your village, and to me.” Nikandros squeezed her hand lightly and thought he felt a minuscule squeeze in return. “You are a warrior of Akielos now, and warriors take pride in their scars.” 

Nikandros gestured to the deep raised scars on his chest, earned from the battle at Marlas. Hypatia dropped the hand from her bandaged eye, and lightly poked a scar over Nikandros’s collarbone.

“Really?” she said quietly, seeming for the first time like a wounded girl of twelve.

“I promise,” Nikandros said. “When your body heals, wear your scars with pride, for they mark you as a hero of Tarasis. And when you come of age, I would be honored to have a warrior of such bravery enter into my service.”

The girl nodded and bowed her head, deflating slightly with exhaustion. Nikandros rose and politely made his leave, heading back to his war tent to begin planning for the coming days.

~~~~

The idea of invisible warriors would not leave Nikandros’s mind after his conversation with the watchman. He doubled the night guard around camp and sent his best archers to the watchtowers with orders that they shoot to maim anything that moves at night. The command seemed harsh to his ears, but his men accepted it unflinchingly after seeing the destruction in the village. Everyone except the guard was to shelter in place at night. 

Soldiers and a few survivors combed the village and the livestock fields for anything salvageable - they brought back dozens of small bronze bells that were once attached to the necks of animals. Nikandros had the soldiers tie them to the branches of bushes and scrubs and small trees around the village as an added warning for unseen movement.

They had been camped at Tarasis for a week when it happened.

From the east side of camp, coming from the trailhead to the mountain foothills, a ringing so faint it might have been mistaken for birdsong. The night was still and silent otherwise, and the bronze tinkling bell echoed on rock and air. Another bell, closer. A shout from the watchtower, and the telltale whoosh and thunk of an arrow finding purchase.

A horse screamed in the darkness and the camp erupted.

Nikandros was yelled awake by Aktis, and he rolled to his armor swiftly, threw it on roughly, and grabbed his sword.

The increased night guard had formed a shield wall at the eastern entrance to the camp, and behind them, archers notched arrows and let them fly into the night. Nikandros scanned the field for vulnerabilities, but his blood froze when an arrow somehow struck empty air and materialized a raider with an arrow in his neck.

“Report!” barked Nikandros.

Aktis appeared immediately at his side. “Male raiders like the ones described at Tarasis, same ones I’m certain - they’re concealed by some magic. Invisible and soundless, but wounding them removes the shroud.” Aktis shook his head. “Those bells saved us.”

Nikandros nodded. All soldiers were now roused and assembled - they fell into a series of tight phalanxes around the traditionally squared-off Akielon camp, sealing all entry points with shield, spear, and swift arrows. The Tarasis villagers and other camp civilians were guided to a center cluster of tents and surrounded by an extra ring of soldiers. They were owed that, at least. 

After a sweeping assessment, Nikandros was satisfied that the camp was secure. Entire armies had broken against those phalanxes.

With a solid defense, Nikandros began to think in an offensive capacity. At Marlas, the Akielons had carried smoking censers of green juniper - as the smoke drifted across the battlefield, it dispelled the Veretian’s battle magic, broke their hexes, and forced them to face the superior Akielon forces head-on. 

Here at Tarasis, a mounted vanguard force of elite Akielon fighters could be armed with censers and swords, surge outside of the camp, and rout or preferably kill the raiders as their illusions failed.

Nikandros yelled for his best warriors to assemble, then for the squires to collect juniper sprigs in censers and set them alight. 

A few minutes later, the elite men of Nikandros’s troops lined up on horseback behind the eastern phalanx - several raiders and their horses had gotten past the raining Akielon arrows but found themselves slain by Akielon spears. Their suddenly visible bodies littered the ground in front of the phalanx. Nikandros whistled sharply and the phalanx parted, allowing the cavalry to surge through before it closed ranks behind them.

Nikandros led the charge, gripping his heavy Akielon sword in his left hand and the smoking censer in his right. He urged his warhorse with his knees into a hard gallop.

"Do not stop to fight the front lines!" Nikandros yelled as raiders began popping into existence around him. There were more than he anticipated. "Break them!"

He waved the censer in an arc over his head, sending the prickly juniper smoke surging across the battlefield, and with clean slices, he divested the nearest visible raider of his arms.

In the distance, Aktis galloped far into enemy lines with unstoppable momentum - he exposed the entire southern flank of raiders before skewering several. Pallas, a younger soldier with incredible talent, broke through a cluster of raiders and speared two at once. Pallas then swung the censer behind him and struck a charging raider in the temple. The raider fell off of his horse before he was speared through the gut.

Confident that his men were holding their own, Nikandros rode hard towards the foothills, hoping that their leader would be cowering at the rear of his troops. These raiders had been so dishonorable that it seemed the most likely option. He threw the censer in loops above his head like a flail and the main body of raiders manifested before his eyes. 

"Kyros!" One of the raiders yelled with a rough accent on the Akielon word. They charged him and Nikandros met every strike with all the rage he had felt since he first read the letter. Behind Nikandros's eyes were images of flames engulfing Tarasis, of children with swords sticking out of their bellies, of Hypatia clawing her loved ones away from death at the expense of her own body. 

Behind him, the cavalry picked off stragglers, but Nikandros assured that few escaped his steel.

Beneath his rage, Nikandros had the uncomfortable inkling that this was too easy. He was proven right when the second wave of raiders swarmed from the foothills, fully visible. From a distance, they lobbed flaming bundles that exploded upon impact with the ground. Even the warhorses, desensitized as they were to battle magic, could not keep footing and a few soldiers lost their seats as their mounts bolted. 

Sensing a shift in the battle, Nikandros wheeled his mount, collected what was left of the cavalry, and formed a rigid attack line facing the raiders. They were close enough now to see the expressions on the raiders' faces, and these men did not have the look of a force about to be overwhelmed. In fact, they looked smug. 

Explosions tore suddenly at the ground beneath the horse's feet and Nikandros's cavalry line broke. 

It took every ounce of training and muscle strength for Nikandros to stay seated on his horse without the use of both hands. The explosions had cut off the cavalry from camp and horses ran screaming, some on fire, some dragging limp and useless legs before stumbling and falling. Many soldiers tried desperately to put out flames on manes and tails. 

Nikandros's mount had been front and center to the explosion and was now wildly out of control. It was miraculously not injured, but it ran with reckless abandon away from the fighting and the fire, towards the darkened tree line that marked the border. 

Nikandros dropped the censer and pulled hard on the reins with one hand, desperately trying to keep seat while stopping his mount’s panicking. Nonetheless, he could only hold on as his horse swept past the tree line, into the dark forest, and into Vere.

~~~~

The further his horse galloped, the denser the trees became until his mount stumbled over a fallen log and collapsed its front leg, sending Nikandros tumbling onto the forest floor. The horse whined but calmed in the darkness, away from the blinding heat of explosives. 

Nikandros gingerly regained his footing and knelt to inspect the horse’s leg. After running exploratory hands from neck to hoof, he was relieved to find that nothing was broken. His mount was in pain however, likely some kind of soft tissue damage, and Nikandros would not risk putting his weight on the horse, lest he further injure it. He held the reins loosely and let the horse chew absently on tufts of grass that sprang up from under the leaf and needle littered forest floor. 

Nikandros was lost. In Vere. During an ambush on his camp. From murderous raiders that had magic in their arsenal.

Fuck.

He deliberately slowed his breathing in the way his swordmaster taught him long ago in preparation for battle. Without this technique, his panic might have bubbled over his discipline. 

All he had to do was think of a linear plan.

⠀⠀⠀1. Find south

During the daytime, this task would have been easy - he would have simply judged direction based on the sun’s position. The moon was dark or close to it this time of the month and would be no help. The stars could be of aid, except that Nikandros was not overly familiar with the celestial sphere, as that was mostly a skill of ocean navigators. He chided himself on the gap and vowed to learn it if he ever made it home. He carried no lodestone for finding north, and his mount had taken wild twists and turns that skewed the memory of his path. 

Nikandros’s options for finding his direction and exiting the forest before daybreak were dwindling.

⠀⠀⠀2. Climb a tree and try to see smoke or fire

The raid on camp might actually guide him back, or at least indicate a direction he should walk. Nikandros examined the surrounding trees and found them to be unhelpful; they were enormous and ancient, with thick trunks and limbs that began higher than Nikandros could jump. He would have to shimmy up the trunk like a bear to have any chance, and he did not like his odds in the dark.

⠀⠀⠀3. Just begin walking and hope the direction is correct

Nikandros hated this idea but it was the only option he had left. At daybreak, he could see how right or wrong he was. It was the opposite of a linear plan, and he hoped for luck, feeling slightly foolish.

He tugged gently on the reins of his mount and walked in the direction that he suspected to be south.

Until now, he had noticed how dark the forest was and how large the trees were, but it struck Nikandros with every cushioned step that this forest was very old. Akielons told stories to children of the monsters and calculating sorcerers that lived in the woods of Vere, of beasts who could swallow children whole, or charm them into slitting their own throats. After adolescence, he had mostly forgotten about them, but seeing this forest, he half believed them again. 

There was magic here, he could feel it. He almost regretted keeping his sword over the censer, but ultimately a sword would be more useful under more circumstances. Regardless, he did not want to disturb the land and was very aware that an Akielon being in this space may have already offended whatever Veretian creatures lurk in the shadows of these woods.

He trod lightly, avoided crushing growing plants as much as possible with his limited visibility, and touched the mossy barks of trees only gently. His ears pricked at every instance of rustling brush, every inhuman cry in the darkness. 

A set of closed gates appeared suddenly in front of him, and Nikandros barely halted in time to avoid colliding with them. 

The gates were old and tarnished and had heavy vines slinking through the intricate and distinctly Veretian latticework. They were attached to a crumbling stone wall, Nikandros saw, and as he peered high into the darkness, he thought he could see pointed Veretian spires rising into the treeline. A large estate then, perhaps even a minor castle.

A placard hung on the stone wall next to the gate and Nikandros brushed the vines away to read the flowing script: Acquitart. 

“Very Veretian,” Nikandros muttered. He did not want to intrude on this estate, but he desperately needed shelter, and sustenance for his mount would be most welcome. The property might also be abandoned, so he could shelter here anyway without drawing attention.

He pushed on the gate firmly, and it gave with a screech that sent animals skittering through the trees. If anyone was at the estate, they now certainly knew Nikandros was here. 

“Hello!” Nikandros yelled in gruff tones but with overly polite Veretian syntax. “I have lost my way in the forest, and my horse is injured - may we take shelter here until dawn?” There was no response, and so Nikandros took a few tentative steps into the courtyard. 

He saw a trough of rainwater near an abandoned building that he assumed used to be stables, so he tied his horse to an adjacent fence post. His mount drank gratefully and then went back to chewing grass. Nikandros left his horse to graze and walked to the courtyard’s center. A wide stone staircase led up to a massive set of front doors. The door was decorated with a tarnished metal door knocker in the shape of a huge tusked boar’s head. 

Nikandros raised the heavy knocker and let it fall. The sound reverberated through the door and the space beyond before the door gently gave way. As he stepped over the threshold, Nikandros thought he saw the metal boar toss its head, but when he looked again, it was unmoving as ever. 

His sandals were as loud as stiff leather boots on the stone floor, no matter how insubstantial he tried to make his footfalls. Nikandros, however, was not an insubstantial man, so every movement he made echoed across the high arches and carved columns of the entryway.

He saw figures in the shadows and tensed with a hand on his sword before realizing that they were in fact, statues. Ugly ones. Gargoyles and monsters, like the ones from the Akielon bedtime stories. 

“Hello!” He tried once more, though his bassy voice felt way too loud. “My horse bolted into the forest and I have lost my way - may I take shelter here until morning?”

“He’s already here though.”

“Shut up!”

“But he’s not going anywhere, he’s lost. He just said so.”

“He’s going to hear you, idiot.”

“We can’t just ignore him, what if the master -”

“Shut up!”

“I can hear you both talking,” Nikandros said, not without a hint of amusement. The situation was absurd, but the mood was catching. “If you worry about compensation, I will gladly pay your master a large sum for lodging until morning.”

“He wouldn’t take payment.”

“Don’t fucking answer him!”

“But he asked a question - it would be rude not to respond.”

“No, you just haven’t seen any muscles lately, and now that you’ve seen him half-naked your wax cock is about to melt off.”

“Half-naked?” Nikandros interrupted.

“Says the ugly stone mug with the smashed face.”

“Says the mood lighting.”

“Now who’s flirting?”

“Excuse me?” Nikandros tried again, pulling on the dregs of his patience, “I am sorry to interrupt a productive discussion, but I really do need shelter until dawn.”

“C’mon Orlant, we never get to have any fun. It’s been seven years. I’m bored. Aren’t you bored?”

A heavy sigh sounded from the darkness beyond the entryway.

“Fine. But if he shows up pissed, I am not fucking dealing with him.”

“He’s in the library this time of night, and he’ll be there for hours. I’m going for it.”

Metal scraped across the stone floor in a strange fashion, like a scuttling metal crab. Nikandros gripped his sword hilt tightly, not wanting to draw and offend, but needing to be ready.

The entryway brightened suddenly but softly as if someone had simultaneously coaxed several candles alight. Nikandros found himself staring at a candelabra about as tall as he was, glowing and flickering. It also seemed to have eyes.

“Salut beauté! Welcome to Acquitart.” 

It had a mouth too. A flirtatious one. The metal arms of the candelabra gestured freely like human limbs and the flames of his candles flickered with each movement.

Nikandros stared. The candle-man seemed to be waiting. He scrunched the waxy build-up around his eyes rhythmically, and Nikandros realized that he was wiggling what would have been his eyebrows.

“What Veretian sorcery is this?”

That sent the candle into peals of laughter, which rang out against the castle walls. “It is very good Veretian sorcery!” 

“I wouldn’t say it’s been good for us.” The other voice from before rang out in the darkness with poorly concealed petulance.

The candelabra turned. “I didn’t mean good for us, it’s simply an effective spell. Stop being a cross bastard and introduce yourself to our guest.”

The other voice sighed, and a stone gargoyle trudged into the halo of light. The face of the statue had been chipped in some places, and there was an empty concave area of rough stone around where the nose should have been. The gargoyle opened its stone mouth and spoke.

“Since, you’re here, barbarian -” he spat the word with some clear prejudice, “You will not leave our sight. Don’t even think to make any moves with your large sword. I’m not easily taken down.” He stomped the ground with one huge stone paw and smashed a few of the delicate mosaic tiles that made up the entryway floor.

Nikandros nodded warily at the terms, and the gargoyle seemed to relax slightly. “Our master is a cast-iron bitch, and if he knew you were here, well -” the gargoyle awkwardly rubbed at his neck, “It would be bad for all of us.”

“I do not intend to trouble you for long, or your master at all. I just need shelter from the forest until sunrise.”

“I wish he would stay for longer than that!” the candle said lasciviously, and the flame at the tip on his head flared for a moment.

“Who are you?” Nikandros finally asked. 

Every instance of magic Nikandros had experienced was for maiming or incapacitating. He knew that magic healers could use spells to cure flesh and mend bone, but had never seen it himself. He had even heard of great sorcerers in the Veretian courts who could perform art with magic, in sensual and otherworldly performances for the nobility. 

The spell on these men was more complex than a simple hex. To shapeshift an entire human body into something else, to animate the inanimate with human consciousness, it would take so much power - it was all overwhelming to the rigid discipline of his Akielon mind.  


“My manners have fled!” The candle said with drama. “Please, forgive our inhospitality.” He gestured to the gargoyle. “This ugly thing is Orlant - he was only slightly better looking as a man.”

Orlant surprisingly just shrugged his stone shoulders and didn’t protest.

“And I, mon tendre, am Lazar - the most handsome man at Acquitart, besides our master of course.”

“You may call me Nik.” The slight immodesty of giving his small name was nothing compared to being recognized as a Kyros while at the mercy of Veretians.

“A powerful name for a powerful man,” Lazar said, nudging Nikandros’s generous bicep with a candle. He left a small dollop of warm wax behind.

“My horse is also injured. Is there anyone at this estate that could look at its leg?”

Lazar and Orlant exchanged a look. With only a slightly nervous chuckle, Lazar said, “The master is the only one in Acquitart with the ability to heal your horse, and he is not supposed to know you’re here.”

Nikandros nodded hesitantly. “Is your master the one that trapped you in these forms?”

Orlant sneered at him, making his face even uglier. “The master is as trapped as anyone here, he just gets to openly be a bitch about it.”

“I see.”

Sensing the awkwardness and blooming questions, Lazar swung his arms around grandly and announced, “I think a large fire is in order! Please, follow me to the parlor!” He clicked away on his four metal feet, and Nikandros followed a bit helplessly. Orlant stomped heavily behind him.

The parlor off the grand foyer was a smaller and more intimate room, with Veretian style chaise lounges positioned around a huge fireplace. A few plump cushions lingered on the edges of the room in special alcoves, and Nikandros knew enough of Veretians that he could imagine what would take place in those alcoves. Despite the seeming lack of servants, the room was free of dust, and though the entrance to the estate seemed decrepit, he could see that this room was lived in.

“Please, make yourself comfortable!” Lazar stuck two of his candles into the hearth and the firewood inside ignited, basking the room in a soft orange glow.

Orlant took up guard near the door where he could see both Nikandros and the dark foyer at once.

Lazar stepped to one of the alcoves and carefully drew aside a curtain before rapping on what looked to Nikandros like a small hidden doorway.

“Huet, we need some tea in the parlor!” 

“Already?” A muffled call came from beyond the door. “It’s early for him - is he in a bad mood?”

“If he was in a bad mood, you would know.”

“True. Why the tea then?”

“Just bring some already and you can see for yourself.”

Minutes passed and Nikandros felt his muscles soften in the comfortable heat of the hearth. It was not cold in Akielos and had not been cold in the forest, but this manor had a distinct chill clinging to its foundation. Nikandros wondered if it was part of the spell or just a byproduct of a disused structure.

Soon enough, a teapot burst through the little door. Teapots were not supposed to burst through anything or move at all. The teapot startled and sloshed some of its contents when it set eyes on Nikandros.

“Who’s this?” Lazar had called the teapot Huet.

“This is our guest, Nik, and he will be here until sunrise!” Lazar said this with barely contained glee.

“Does the master know?” The teapot looked nervous.

Orlant growled from the door, “Fuck no, and don’t tell him.”

The teapot stared a moment longer and then leaped with surprising dexterity onto the low table in front of Nikandros’s chaise. He wiggled the base of himself and opened a compartment in the table that contained several teacups, which were thankfully not alive.

Huet used his spout to lift a teacup and then tipped himself sideways to fill the cup with steaming liquid. He nudged it toward Nikandros.

“I am not drinking -” He stumbled for the Veretian words, “This tea, it is not part of your body? I do not wish to drink you.”

Lazar howled with laughter, and even Orlant let loose a gruff guffaw. 

“I - it’s just tea, don’t worry.” Huet looked flabbergasted.

“Then I appreciate the effort, thank you.” 

Nikandros slightly bowed his head and Lazar wolf-whistled. “He’s great, isn’t he? Such manners, and from an Akielon. It is a rare night indeed!”

“Is it now?” Came a new voice from the doorway, and everyone froze. 

Orlant had apparently been distracted by the tea incident, and he came to attention with a constipated look on his face. Lazar stood up straight and held his candles aloft. Huet let fear cross his face for a moment and a small burst of steam exited his spout.

“Master, we can explain.”

“Explain why an Akielon is enjoying the hospitality of my parlor without my knowledge?”

Nikandros turned and saw a figure leaning against the doorframe. His voice was masculine but icy, nonchalant in tone but with obvious venom. He spoke with a casual and almost lazy cadence, but Nikandros had deep-seated instincts about danger. This master was dangerous. 

He wore a hooded cloak that obscured his face in shadow and pooled at the floor around his feet. Around what Nikandros hoped were feet. His silhouette was strange and inhuman - he was not as tall as Nikandros when leaning, and he wondered if the man was bipedal, or flesh and blood at all. 

The master pushed himself from the doorframe and sauntered forward. His steps clicked against the floor strangely, unlike shoes, certainly unlike human feet.

Nikandros feared standing up but also feared staying seated. He compromised with a deep pride-searing bow, after which he rose from the chaise. The master stopped on the murky edges of the hearth’s glow so that Nikandros could not make out any of his features.

“I sincerely apologize for the intrusion - my horse fled into the woods and I became lost. I stumbled upon your great manor and sought shelter. I hope I -”

“Enough,” interrupted the master, and Nikandros closed his mouth with a surprised clack.

“You are not welcome here barbarian. Not you, nor any of your sister-raping, bastard-siring brethren.”

“Sister -” Nikandros sputtered. 

“I said enough. You will not speak. You will leave this instant. You will tell no one of this place.”

Nikandros felt his rage peak and overflow; he felt like the crest of a wave bludgeoning the rocky shores of Ios. For all he knew, he outranked this foul-mouthed wretch of a creature, and certainly had better manners. His pride could only bend so far before it snapped.

“I will not be ordered around by a man who will not even reveal his face.” 

The cloaked figure laughed, an emotionless and hollow sound. “I owe you nothing. My men have taken liberties tonight.” Orlant flinched and Lazar’s candle flames almost flickered out.

“Since you display abhorrent manners and will not leave when asked -" He flicked his fingers casually at Orlant, "Take this beast to the cells, and let him rot amongst the other filth.”

“Yes, master.” Orlant sprung forward surprisingly fast and wrenched Nikandros’s arms behind his back. Nikandros bodily struggled, but it was a battle of flesh against a stone, and stone won.

“I told you I wasn’t going to deal with him pissed,” Orlant muttered and dragged Nikandros up a spiral staircase, then threw him in the nearest cell. Nikandros reared back and slammed his whole weight into the metal bars and found them as immovable as Orlant’s stone arms.

“I’ll get Jord to work on him,” Orlant said with a peppering of guilt in his tone. “Until then, don’t fuck around.”

With a heavy scrape, Orlant was gone. 

Nikandros was left alone, bathed in the pale dregs of starlight from a tall slit of a window. He paced to get the bearings of his cell, tested wall, bars, floor, everything. Nothing budged. 

At last, he peered outside - this prison tower was tall, likely one of those pointy Veretian spires in the forest canopy. From this height in a tree, Nikandros would have been able to find his way out of the forest.

He looked long into the distance and drifting above the treetops, opposite of the direction he had walked to Acquitart, Nikandros spied smoke highlighted with licks of flame.


	2. Damianos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damianos POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall i am just overwhelmed by the nice comments and kudos, thank you so much ♡ i will try my hardest to make this story fulfilling to read!!

Damianos swung Akielon steel at his sparring partner, igniting several sparks in a ringing clash. The instant he felt the tension break between their strikes, he shoved hard and ducked the incoming riposte. He used this momentum to fly under his opponent's guard and knock his legs out from under him. The man dropped to the sawdust like a sack of rocks. Damen’s sword was at his neck before he could plan a recovery.

“Yield,” The man said with a small wry smile, breathing hard. Damen grinned widely and extended a hand to haul his teacher back to his feet.

“Strength is your asset, as you well know, but your speed is always -” The man shook his head, “Quite a surprise. I’m afraid these old bones can’t keep up with you.”

“You only have ten years on me, Berenger, I could hardly call you old,” Damen said with a laugh.

“Just wait, you’ll see,” Berenger said with mild exasperation. “You’ll wake up one morning with creaking muscles and then again every morning after that.”

“Not so,” came Kastor’s voice from the edge of the training arena. “Maybe you Veretians just need to stretch before bed. Or are you more used to fucking in the gardens?”

Berenger’s smile dipped so that he wore a practiced and impassive mask. Damen crossed his bulky arms and turned to face his brother. It was a rude comment to someone Damen considered a friend, not to mention his teacher.

“Do you want to spar with him, Kastor?” Damen said evenly, hoping that perhaps the invitation might appease his brother and ease some tension.

“I would rather not roll in the dirt with a Veretian. I don’t understand why you insist on learning all of those flowery parries.”

“You know why,” Damen said, trying to douse his temper before it ignited. “And Berenger is a member of my household, not some random Veretian soldier.”

“As you say. A messenger is waiting for you. Only for you, apparently.”

There it was, Damen thought, the reason for this mood. He had long known that Kastor carried a modicum of jealousy for Damen’s position, his lineage, his birth. Perhaps Damen was just getting older and more aware, but Kastor seemed to hide it less and less as he aged.

Ever since Damianos slew Auguste. Ever since Kastor, heaving from hours of holding the front lines, had to watch his father laud Damianos as the hero of Marlas, while Kastor watched on the sidelines like a second son.

Damen had never felt that way - growing up, he viewed Kastor like the sun, bright and unstoppable. Even when Kastor ran him through with a training sword at thirteen, Damen felt proud to be his little brother. 

He wished Kastor believed him. He wished his father would not be so uneven with his affections. He wished for peace in his family, but after everything with Jokaste, found it to be scarce.

“Tell him I’ll be there shortly,” Damen said, unwrapping the leather gauntlets from his wrists and handing them to a nearby squire.

“Tell him yourself.” Kastor turned on heel and vanished.

Damen took a deep breath, then turned to Berenger, “I apologize, I think he must be stressed.”

“Must be,” Berenger said flatly, and Damen knew he understood.

Berenger had been taken captive at Marlas, one of the few prisoners to be kept alive because of his rank and landholdings. He had once confided to Damen that he wanted to die at Marlas with the other men, rather than survive because of his status or wealth. Damen had seriously and emphatically responded that he was happy to know Berenger, which rendered him speechless.

Ever since Auguste, Damen had been learning the techniques of Veretian sword fighting. He worried at first that Berenger would begrudge him this, or worse, try to kill him during a sparring match. No challenge ever came; Berenger’s calm practical demeanor fit well in Akielos.

Damen had asked about his feelings once, during a night when too much sweet wine had temporarily smoothed the rough edges of the past. Berenger had responded that the king and princes were dead, and the Regent held the throne, so Vere was lost. There was a darkness to the admission but Damen had not wanted to pry further.

In return, Berenger never questioned Damen about killing Auguste. Berenger’s pragmatic mind knew why Damen did it - as a former lord of Vere, he understood sacrifice and diplomacy to an almost emotionless degree.

“Take your leave Damen. I will have a new feint to try on you during our next match.”

Damen grinned, “I look forward to it.”

~~~

Damianos strode heavily into the audience chamber and saw a messenger kneeling on the marble. He was not quite rasping breath but was clearly exhausted.

“Do you require water?” Damen said gently and the messenger looked up in surprise before plastering his gaze to the floor again.

“No, my prince. A message from Kyros Nikandros.”

“Nik!” Damen said delightedly and took the rolled parchment from the messenger. The man bowed and walked backward out of the room.

Nikandros’s handwriting looked rough, and Damen wondered if this message had been written on horseback.

_D,_  
_Raiders at Tarasis. Bloody massacre, the whole village is gone. I need you here and I need men. Send word as soon as you receive this and come quickly._  
_-N_

Damen had never read words from Nikandros like this. He was stubborn and sarcastic, capable of taking a good-natured ribbing and of giving it back. He could be gentle and sensitive, but never desperate. This message was desperate.

The throne room at Ios was open to the sea, with grand white columns that held the room aloft at intervals. The white marble was only broken by a deep red running carpet that led to the throne itself. The waves crashed against the cliffs below like thunder as Damen half-ran to his father. 

Theomedes sat on the throne, looking tired. He looked that way often lately. Kastor was nowhere to be seen.

“Father, there’s been an attack,” Damianos said, approaching the throne without preamble. The king’s brow furrowed, so Damen continued.

“It was Tarasis, far northeast Delpha. Nikandros said it was -”

“Raiders from the mountains,” Theomedes said like a curse. “I knew those illegal trade pacts would bring trouble.” He glanced a bit disapprovingly at Damen, remembering his son’s argument that villages like Tarasis needed mountain trade to survive.

Damen ignored the gesture because he stood by his convictions. It was rare for him to break with his father, but Theomedes had been unreasonable about the relatively minor trade infractions. The villagers were more important than royal pride.

“Nik has asked for me, and for men of Ios. I -” Damen faltered a moment, “I think sounds bad, father.” Damen was an open book, emotionally, and Theomedes must have known that this was not an ordinary raid.

“Take two thousand, plus horse.” Theomedes sharply continued, “I want to know the details, Damianos, as soon as you are able.”

“Yes father, of course. Thank you.”

That was the end, and Theomedes dismissed him. Damen sent a servant to fetch the master-at-arms, and the rousing of his forces was completed quickly and efficiently.

He caught Kastor in the hallway to his royal chambers.

“So you’re leaving then?” Kastor asked, nonchalantly.

“Yes, it looks bad,” Damen said softly. “If you would like to journey with us, I am sure we could use your battle experience.”

“I am otherwise occupied,” Kastor said smugly, “The pregnancy, you know.”

“I understand.”

“Go earn your glory, brother.”

~~~~

A day later, Damen stood portside on a ship, at the head of a fleet sailing to Marlas.

The horses and men were loaded onto three-tiered vessels, the pride of the navy at Ios. Mounts were crowded on the bottom deck, close but comfortable and unaware of much other than food. The men slept in hammocks on the second level, and Damianos had an adjacent cabin to the captain on the upper deck.

Damen calculated his time frame - the original rider from Tarasis could have reached Nikandros in a week; Nik would take at least three weeks to march with infantry to Tarasis from Marlas. Another two weeks at least for the messenger to gallop to Ios, and that’s only if he had fresh horses. A week at sea until Marlas, and then a week of hard riding to Tarasis.

He would arrive at Tarasis nearly two months after the original attack, and at least a month after Nikandros. It was too long, but without the ability to fly messages back and forth, it was the best Damianos could do.

He did feel lucky, and then guilty for feeling that luck; out of all the kyroi, all the generals, Damen was relieved that Nikandros had been the one to respond. Nikandros could handle it, could handle battle, and survivors, and rebuilding. His linear efficiency was the perfect response to this tragedy.

Damen was more heart than head when it came to civilians. For the most part, soldiers choose their fates, and in Akielos, they killed and died with honor. Slaughtering unarmed villagers held no honor.

The first time Damen saw a massacre had been months before Marlas, when the tensions with Vere had boiled over, and border attacks were common. He had worked long hours digging graves and burying dead flesh, tears in his eyes, and flames in his throat. When he first looked upon the golden prince Auguste at Marlas, all he could see was putrescence and the rotting faces of children.

But that was in the past. Nikandros kept him steady. Kept him on a linear course. Damen did not know what he would do without Nik.

~~~~

“Where is Nikandros?” Damianos said with enough ferocity to make the nearest soldier blanch. 

Damen’s men may have cursed him, but they made record time to Tarasis, only to find a disheveled Akielon camp, and the horrific ruins of a village that still stank with rotting bodies in the summer sun.

“There are unburied dead, the camp is in shambles, and I need a report from Nikandros. Now.”

Aktis, Nik’s second on the battlefield and camp steward in his absence, burst from the war tent and met Damianos with a bow. 

“The Kyros is missing.”

Before Damen could think, he had grabbed Aktis by his leathers and was shaking him.

“Tell me, now.”

Aktis stuttered through the shaking, “Mountain raiders, not clanswomen, others - they have shroud magic and explosives, they always attack at night.”

“Always?” Damen said with a new spike of apprehension.

“Not counting the original massacre, the raiders have hit us four times.”

Damen dropped Aktis, who stumbled to his feet immediately.

“The first night that they attacked our camp, the Kyros led his cavalry to rout them - we killed many. The second wave came with explosives. Nikandros’s horse bolted into the forest.” Aktis gestured to the looming treeline in the distance.

Vere. Damen felt ill.

“And why did you not look for him?” Damen nearly shouted.

“We did, Prince Damianos, I swear it. We sent dozens of scouts into the woods, our best trackers, and there was not a single sign of him. But we needed all the men at camp by nightfall.” Aktis gestured to the twitchy soldiers and rumpled tents, some bearing scorch marks. “It has taken every soldier we have to keep this camp in one piece.”

Damen sagged at the weary look in Aktis’s eyes. He did not deserve Damen’s panicky ire and was probably desperately worried about Nik too.

“I’m going to find him.”

He would not leave the camp to its own defenses - Damen had brought an extra two thousand men from Ios, and horses to match. It was a formidable army by itself and these cowardly raiders could not possibly match. He named Aktis captain in his stead and ordered the fresher men from Ios to remake camp and hold it. 

“During the day, prioritize burying the dead,” Damen said as he pointed at Tarasis. “At night, do not let this camp fall.”

Aktis bowed and began sending orders with his men. Damen sought out Berenger first and found him sharpening a sword in the armory tent.

“Nik has vanished into the woods. I need to know about the territory of Vere and that forest,” Damen said, feeling like he broke an unspoken rule between them, but not finding much heart to care if it meant finding Nik.

Berenger nodded and seemed to understand the seriousness of Damen’s inquiry. “The forest here is old and dense. There are - tales of it.”

“What tales?”

“Fairy tales. Tales to scare children. Monsters in the woods, evil witches.”

“And do they have merit?”

Berenger looked at him strangely, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Do the tales have any kernel of truth to them?” Damen knew he must sound mad. But the raiders had magic, Vere had magic, and he was going to be prepared.

“Yes,” Berenger said softly. Damen waited as patiently as possible for him to continue.

“The crown prince of Vere had another royal title,” Berenger said, “A speck of land that was little more than a small castle and minor holdings, called Acquitart. The prince of Vere was also a prince of Acquitart.”

“After Marlas, the Regent had its location stricken from all the maps of Vere, in grief.” Berenger spat the last words out with malice. He met Damen’s eyes with ferocity.

“I cannot be positive, but I remember Acquitart being close to the border, and was located in an eastern forest. If Nikandros stumbled upon Acquitart, he could be sheltered.”

“Then why hasn’t he returned in over a month?”

Berenger shook his head. “Even when the princes were alive, Acquitart was known as a hub of magic. Its foundation was built upon an intersection of ley lines. Apprentice sorcerers used to leave Vere to study at Acquitart. The tales of spirits and sorcery in those woods have been substantiated by many accounts.” 

Berenger squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “It is possible that the magic of Acquitart did not respond well to an Akielon. But that is only if the Kyros ended up there.”

Damen felt gutted on a white-hot blade. He thanked Berenger and promised to stay alive long enough to learn his new Veretian feint.

He strode out from the tent to find Aktis, and almost collided with a young girl who inserted herself bodily into his path. 

She was on the cusp of puberty but not quite old enough, with light olive skin and a mix of Akielon and Vaskian traits. Her dark eyes were narrow and stormy as she craned her neck upward to glare at Damen. Her eye, Damen realized. The other was covered with a dark cloth tied diagonally across her head. The skin peeking out from the edge of the cloth was red, rough, and mottled, as were parts of her chest, shoulders, and arms.

“You will find the Kyros,” she spat ferociously. “Or else.”

Damen was bewildered. He crouched down to bring their gazes level.

“Are you one of the survivors?” Damen said gently.

“The Kyros said I was a warrior. You will bring him back to camp, or else.”

Her good eye watered slightly, though her body language was not wilted. She was enraged.

Damen softly laid his hands on both of her shoulders, careful to not put too much pressure on her burn wounds. “I promise I will. You have my word as Prince Damianos of Akielos that I will bring him home.”

“Or else,” she said again, ripping her shoulders from his grasp and storming into a nearby tent. 

An older woman watched her near the tent flap in suspended horror. Damen inclined his head towards her with a sad smile, and the woman bowed to him before rapidly retreating inside the tent.

His feet found Aktis soon after. “The raiders always arrive at night, invisible, yes?”

“Yes, my prince.”

“And Nikandros rode into the woods at night, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And the scouts? What time of day did they walk the woods?”

“Dawn until dusk, every day for two weeks.” Aktis was thinking hard behind his darting eyes. “We needed the men at night.”

“What if Veretian magic is concealing him during the day? What if Nik is only able to be found at night?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, my prince.”

“It means I am riding into Vere at moonrise. Ready my horse, prepare herbs for warding magic.”

~~~~

This decision was foolish, Damen knew. He should ride with a guard. He should bring half the battalion; he should rip the forest to shreds with his bare hands. But that was the Akielon in him, trained for rigid discipline, honor, for not taking risky chances, for calculating odds and winning.

He was no longer in Akielos though. He was in Vere, and he needed to think like it.

Damen’s knowledge of magic was heavily skewed towards battle. The only reference he had for this fantastical type of sorcery was childhood, back when his caretakers used to recite imaginative tales of magic and monsters before bed.

He remembered an old Kemptian tale, where a giant white spider guided a child from a labyrinth with a bewitched thread of silk. In return for its aid, she brought the spider tributes: beautiful tapestries woven of its silk, plump livestock, golden bangles that glimmered on its eight pale legs.

Damen dismounted his horse before a huge fallen tree which was tall enough even on its side that he could not climb it. It was covered in moss and mushrooms that glowed with faint bioluminescence. A hollow in the tree looked oddly shelf-like and Damen figured it was as good of a place as any to make his offering.

He first removed two golden goblets from his saddlebags. They were works of art, etched with images of old Akielon gods and encrusted with rubies. 

In clear Veretian, Damianos stated his purpose: “To the spirits of this forest and to the spirits of Vere - I apologize for treading in your domain. I am looking for a friend who lost his way in these woods. Please, accept my offering and guide me to him?”

Silence. A frog croaked menacingly. Damen’s horse whuffed into the fodder. 

He dug again in his saddlebags and retrieved a necklace of multicolored pearls that were fished from prismatic reefs by the freedivers of Isthima.

“I hope this offering is more appropriate. Please, if possible, guide me to my friend.”

An owl hooted overhead and it sounded like laughter. 

Damen was beginning to feel like a fool. He unfolded his last offering, an ancient painted manuscript of old Akielon legends. The pages were so thin as to be almost translucent, and the borders were edged in gold. It had been Damen’s as a child and he had once ripped one of the delicate pages almost in half trying to examine one of the illustrations. After that incident, it had gone into the royal vaults to protect its integrity. He placed the tome within the tree, next to the goblets and necklace. 

“Please, I beg you, spirits of Vere. I know I am Akielon, but I desperately need to find him. He is my best friend, a generous and kind leader to his people.” Damen faltered for a moment before adding. “Can you take me to Acquitart?”

Silence for an instant, and then the air cracked like rock falling from the white cliffs of Ios into the sea. Damen’s horse raised its head nervously and its eyes roamed the darkness.

In the distance, a bell rang.

Damen mounted quickly and picked his way through the forest in the direction of the noise. The bell continued to ring, getting louder with proximity until Damen felt nearly on top of it. Then it ceased. 

In the distance, another bell began to chime.

Damen proceeded this way through eleven bells. As he approached the sound of the twelfth, a castle loomed out of the darkness. Damen saw the bell for the first time - it was small and brass, like the kind usually worn by livestock, and it rang without any outside force applied. It was tied with a pale blue thread to a cluster of vines on the crumbling stone wall. 

Just below the bell was a placard with writing. Damen stared in disbelief at the etched stone.

Acquitart.

“Thank you,” Damen said simply, with feeling. The ringing ceased, and when he looked again at the bell, it was gone.

Upon examination, the gate was not latched or chained shut. Acquitart did indeed look abandoned: no guards, no glow from any window or threshold. The forest had overgrown the walls in places with more thick vines, and moss coated the paving stones under his feet. Roots broke through the mortar near the earth.

Damen pushed the gate open with a loud screech that ripped through the treetops.

He did not expect to see a horse in the courtyard. It was without a saddle but obviously brushed and taken care of. It grazed on a bale of hay with contented huffs, looking up at Damen only a moment before returning to its meal. It was a huge chestnut warhorse, and Damen knew it immediately as Nik’s.

His heart pounded and he let the reins of his mount slip from his fingers. If Nik’s horse was alive, Nik could be alive.

Damen ascended some stone brick steps to the great pair of doors at the front entrance to Acquitart. A huge boar-faced door knocker jutted out from the wood, but Damen ignored it and instead heaved his body weight into the door. It jarred open and Damen stepped into the dark foyer.

Something in his instincts told him not to call out. It was extremely improper to enter someone’s estate without knocking or announcing oneself, but if Nikandros had indeed been trapped here, Damen did not want to alert his captors.

The darkness in the castle was a thick miasma of unease. Damen could make out a huge grand staircase in the center of the entryway with stairs that curved upward to the left and right. He supposed it sectioned off the wings of the castle. Off of the foyer were a dozen thresholds, some yawning wide with intricate pointed archways, some closed tight with wooden doors.

He had no idea where to begin looking for Nik. His feet thundered on the stone floor, and he knew, even without speaking, that he would be found out soon at this rate.

He passed a hideous stone gargoyle with a smashed face and looked away with a childish pang of fear. From what Berenger had said, this estate used to be grand and desirable, a place fit for royalty. It looked more like a mausoleum, littered with statues of monsters and dust.

He reached the base of the staircase and considered going up. The stairs were carpeted, so his footfalls would be quiet. A tall candelabra stood to the right side, and he thought about taking one of the candles to illuminate his way. Deciding that stealth was more important than speed, Damen left the candle and took a few tentative steps up. 

From the thick gloom behind him, Damen heard a whispering Veretian voice: “Wrong way bel homme. From the entry, open the second door to the left, take the staircase up and you can’t miss him.”

Damen whirled around, trying to locate the disembodied voice, but saw nothing. He heard an irritated huff of breath from another location in the darkness but otherwise could not identify anyone.

If this was a trap, Damen had already walked into it face first. The voice sounded assured, friendly even.

He found the second door to the left of the foyer and pulled the latch. It creaked open to reveal a large spiral staircase, wide enough for two men to walk abreast and not touch. He glanced into the foyer one last time before hurrying up the staircase.

“Good luck!” said the whisper before the door closed behind Damen.

He bounded up the stairs, using his long muscular legs to ascend three steps at once. He rose round and round, past long narrow windows of stained glass, high into the forest canopy. The staircase abruptly ended with a heavy door on a landing.

The door had a viewing slit, and he cautiously opened it. The room beyond was a jail; it housed several cells with metal bars and Damen felt a cool draft blow through the room. His heart lurched when he noticed, in the cell closest to the door, a large figure that lay sprawled on a pile of dirty cushions. 

No mistaking him - it was Nikandros, and Damen saw his chest rise and fall with breath.

He prayed that the door was not locked and roughly shoved on the latch. The door gave way easily like it was often oiled.

“Fuck off,” said Nik when the door opened. He did not even glance up.

“Are you sure? Those pillows look lumpy.” Damen said lightly, heart still beating at a rabbit’s pace.

Nikandros whirled his head around so fast that Damen was worried he would cramp.

“Damen?” He said softly, with childlike wonder. “That had better be you, or else I’m finally going mad.”

“It’s me.” Damen approached the cell and Nikandros rose. They clasped their hands through the cell bars in a complicated grip, a secret handshake that they had invented as boys.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” Nikandros muttered. He scratched through his disheveled and now quite substantial beard. He was dirty, but not overly skinny, and he did not have the gaunt look of a dehydrated man. 

“What happened to you, my friend?” Damen asked softly.

Nikandros’s eyes went wide as if he suddenly remembered his circumstances. 

“Damen, you have to leave this place, now.”

“Not without you. I promised a little girl in the camp. She threatened me with violence if the Kyros did not return.”

“Hypatia,” Nikandros said with a wonderous smile, “She saved three other people from burning to death in Tarasis.”

“Then she knows no fear and will kill me if I return to camp without you.”

Nikandros became serious again. “This place is cursed, Damen. The men are all objects and their master is a beast. And a bitch.”

“What do you mean the men are objects?”

“I can’t even explain it, it's some horrible Veretian sorcery. The kindest man here is a candelabra. He’s very forward.”

Damen thought back to the candlestick by the stairs, and the whispered directions that seemed to come from thin air.

“You seem to be flesh and blood still, so I see no reason why you should stay here. Your horse is even in the courtyard.”

Nikandros seemed surprised at that. “He said killed my horse.”

“Who? The bitch?”

“The beast, yes. He’s the master of this castle and a sorcerer. Orlant said he’s cursed just like everyone else, but he acts like a god.” Nikandros spat. “He’s horrible.”

“All the more reason to get you out.” Damen sized up the cell bars for a moment, then braced himself on an adjacent wall. His biceps rippled with exertion and he pulled against the bars, but they did not even groan.

“Push, Nik, I can’t do this alone.”

“We can’t do it at all, I think they’re bewitched,” Nik said glumly. “At least I’ll be the only one imprisoned if you leave.”

“Not happening, and you aren’t the only one - a man is sleeping in the cell next to you.”

“What?” Nikandros asked, cramming his face against the bars to try and see into the next cell.

“He’s Veretian I think, a little younger than us. Looks like a noble, skinny, no calluses. He’s sleeping soundly. Looks peaceful.”

“I haven’t heard a single peep from him. He must be bewitched as well.” 

“You use spells as an explanation so easily now, Nik.”

“You have not seen what I have seen.”

Damen turned back to Nikandros’s cell to examine the bars again. The cell had no padlock to pick, so it should have swung open at the barest push, but it stuck tight against the stone.

Suddenly, Damen remembered his herbs. Most of them were in the saddlebag on his horse, as was his censer, but he had tucked a few sprigs of juniper on his person. He reached between his underclothes and leathers and felt the slightly crushed green needles.

He yanked them out and squeezed them in his palms, coating his skin in sticky sap and juniper oil. He grabbed the bars again, this time with the juniper in his palms, and tugged.

The metal groaned, and Damianos wanted to loudly whoop his success. He braced himself and pulled harder while Nikandros watched in disbelief.

Metal scraped along the stone as it inched open steadily, and Damen knew they would both be free and away from this cursed place in no time.

Then the door behind them slammed open against the wall. 

Damen felt the air crushed from his lungs as he was suddenly pressed by magic against the bars of Nik’s cell. Nikandros looked wide-eyed between Damen and someone behind him. The juniper sprigs dropped from Damen’s hands, and he watched them burst into flame on the floor.

“You dare come here? You dare step foot into Acquitart? You? Of all men?”

The voice was positively venomous. Damen wanted to turn his head and look at the source of the voice, but he could not move his body. His head began to swim because he lacked air.

“Stop, you’re killing him, he can’t breathe,” Nikandros bellowed.

“I like when vermin are breathless. I like them best dead.” 

This comment was punctuated with another forceful press into the cell bars. Damen felt at least one rib crack, and he groaned into the impending darkness that had started to surround his vision.

“Master,” came a gruff voice from the stairs outside the jail, “Do you really want to do it this way?”

“Were you hoping to sit on his head, Orlant? Please, by all means, crush it like a melon.” 

The pressure on Damen relaxed just enough that he was able to take a shallow breath. It cleared his vision and his mind. He gathered all his strength and did his best to turn his head.

What he saw in his periphery confused him. There was a man. Or the silhouette of a man. Two legs, two arms. He wore Veretian style clothes that had intricate and neverending laces. His neck was strange and elongated and seemed to bob slightly in rhythm with his breaths. He was not wearing boots, but Damen could not see why at this angle. He might have had hair, but it was strange and stiff. His voice was also strange - lilting Veretian that drew out emphasized breathy syllables.

“You must be the beast,” Damen said breathlessly.

The man’s neck retreated into his collar slightly. Damen could not see much more of him than that.

“I see that my prisoners have been chatting.” The beast stepped behind Damen with a strange clicking noise, almost like a large raptor walking across the stone. “I wonder which of your throats I should remove.”

“Mine, please.” Damen rasped.

“No,” Nikandros said from his cell.

“I will not have you hurt my friend any longer. If you must shed blood, let it be mine.”

“Damen,” Nikdandros said tersely. “Don’t do this.”

“A child is waiting for him at our camp. A nearby village was massacred by raiders, and she saved three people from death. She lost an eye and burned her whole body doing so. Please, she adores him.”

“She saved Akielons from death, which is the opposite of my intent. Why would I care? And why would I trade one barbarian for another when I could kill both of you?”

Damen felt his brain clicking the pieces together. “Because you haven’t killed him yet.”

“Excuse me?”

“You haven’t killed Nik. And he’s not asleep either, like the man in the other cell. You need him for something.”

“I need your hides as leather for my boots.”

“You’re not wearing boots.”

The beast scoffed audibly and began to pace with rhythmic clacking.

Damen felt the conversation tilting, and so he pressed his last advantage.

“I am Damianos, Crown Prince of Akielos. In your cell is a member of the kyroi, Nikandros of Delpha. There is an entire army on the doorstep of this forest looking for him. You probably witnessed them sweeping the woods during the day. I do not understand the magic you use to conceal this place, but I guarantee it cannot hold against sweeping lines of two thousand Akielon soldiers. That is what will happen if both Nikandros and I fail to return. Release him, and I will stay with you willingly, to whatever ends those may be. Nikandros will tell them I perished while rescuing him.”

“Never,” Nikandros barked. Damen tried to glare at him from his periphery.

The beast stopped pacing, and Damen felt a presence at his back, not quite touching him, but close. He was strangely not warm like a man. Damen had the fleeting notion that he might be an animated corpse.

“I do not bargain with savages,” The beast said in low tones, suddenly very close to Damen’s ear. 

Damen felt a strange weight grow around his neck and briefly wondered if he was becoming a piece of furniture after all. Nikandros recoiled in his cell.

“It’s a collar,” Nik said dumbly.

“Very perceptive barbarian. If he is to be my Akielon slave, I figured I should dress him properly.” 

Damen’s heart thudded, “So you will let Nik leave?”

“With a condition. This collar is more than ownership. If your friend speaks a word of your survival, indicates for a moment that Damianos lives, then this collar will strangle you.”

“Fuck. You.” Nik gritted out through clenched teeth as he gripped the bars by Damen’s head.

“Orlant, see him out. Make sure he takes both horses.”

Damen saw the silhouette of the beast flick his fingers, and the bars of the cell suddenly flipped around.

Damen fell back from the bars onto the cushions in the cell, finally not held in place by magic. His torso ached from the cracked ribs and bruising. Damen saw the back of the beast disappear down the stairs. He saw pale golden feathers.

“Please don’t do this,” Nik said to the statue that suddenly appeared in the doorway. It was the ugly gargoyle from the foyer, and Damen’s jaw dropped as it moved fluidly and held Nik in a gentle but firm hold.

“You know I can’t deal with him when he’s pissed,” The gargoyle said with audible regret. Still, he shoved Nikandros out the door and closed it behind him with finality.

Damen paced at first. He shouted out the window to the night birds and the dark predators. He tried to wake the man in the adjacent cell. He refrained from shredding the pillows of his sleeping pallet, though he wanted to. 

Several hours into his captivity, the door to the room opened. Damen leaped to his feet, ready to meet the beast face to face. 

Instead of a monster, Damen saw a training dummy in the doorway. He had a second to wonder how it had gotten there before the dummy hopped itself through the door and came to stand in front of his cell. Its shape was a pell covered with leather, tall as a man, likely stuffed with raw sheep’s wool, and it had no arms but a sturdy base. Its face was painted on, but it moved and blinked and opened its mouth.

“Prince Damianos, I am Jord, captain of the guard at Acquitart.”

“You might want to find the gargoyle if you’re here to administer a beating. You look ill-equipped.”

Jord looked unfazed by the animosity. “He never makes a good first impression, and his second one is not going to be any better. Do your best to not antagonize him because that will make it worse.”

“He comes already antagonized. I’m not sure how I could make it worse.”

“You being here has already made it worse,” Jord said sharply, then quietly added, “but it could eventually make it better if you acquiesce.” There was a slight pleading to the tone. “I predict he will be here within the hour. Be ready.”

Jord turned to leave and Damen felt the dizzying desire to call him back, though it was tempered by his pride that wanted nothing from his captors. Damen did not wait on anyone, for anything; he did not call out in desperation for allies. He was a prince. Captivity confused and angered him. He felt surprisingly raw when he realized that the paradigm of his life had shifted so suddenly out of his favor.

He traced the collar around his neck with each finger in turn, feeling how the metal had warmed to the temperature of his skin. There was no gap between his neck and the metal, and it shifted with his breathing like it was a new appendage or a giant raised scar. A metalsmith would have a hard time removing it without cutting open his throat - Damen wondered with slight anxiety if it was attached to his pulse, if he could feel his beating heart pound through the metal. In Ios, slave cuffs and collars were made of gold, but without a looking glass or a body of water, Damen could not see what his own collar looked like.

He thought of Nikandros and wondered what he would tell the camp. Wolves perhaps, or a bear. Bitterly he thought of Kastor and recognized that he had finally gotten everything his jealousy had told him he wanted: Damianos, dead by wildlife, clearing the path to the throne. Jokaste being already pregnant with an heir would cement his claim. Would Theomedes have the energy to mourn? Would it cause him to fall ill with grief?

Damen’s thoughts were interrupted as the door slowly creaked open. He heard the clicking feet and remained seated, trying to follow Jord’s instructions and make himself unimposing. He was staring at the wall of his cell and did not turn to look at the beast. 

“Hello, Prince-killer.”

His words drawled with that same breathy hiss of air but seemed slurred somewhat. Damen recognized his tone as one of drunkenness. 

“Hello, -” Damen paused a second, “What moniker should I used to address you?”

“I would rather you never speak again, filth. Perhaps I should slice out your tongue.

Damen stayed silent for twenty-two erratic clicks of feet across the jail tower floor.

“Nothing to say?” The beast drawled when he came to Damen’s cell. Strange clattering skittered against the metal bars and Damen used a good portion of his attention to actively not look.

“You asked for silence. You have it.”

“Fuck you.” The beast said. 

A vice-like grip surrounded Damen’s cheeks and squeezed, forcefully turning Damen’s head to see the beast. The hex had the force of a punch, and Damen’s head whipped sideways. Rather than close his eyes in a petulant last stand, Damen finally looked.

He noticed the feet first. The beast had three toes on the front each foot tipped with wicked-looking claws, and a smaller balancing claw on his heel. Damen was not wrong to have thought they sounded like the feet of a raptor. The largest front claw could move independently of the others and the one on the beast’s left foot tapped the floor impatiently, as if bored. The feet were also covered in rough scales that were a surprisingly luminous shade of pale blue. It was an unnatural color for wildlife though, outside of the dense rainforests of Vask.

The beast wore clothes on most of his body in a dark navy or black shade, laced down to his ankles, down to his wrists, with a high collar. He had forgone the heavy cloak that Damen had caught glimpses of during their last unpleasant encounter. His body was lithe but not skinny - some of his musculatures bulged strangely under the fabric, like a human form with inaccurate approximation, odd enough to warrant a second glance. 

Damen saw that the beast’s hands were also tipped with claws - these looked more dexterous than his toes. Three fingers and a thumb-like appendage were wrapped around the bars of his cell, while the other held a tense hand gesture at his side, controlling the spell that held Damen’s face. He had a tail too, scaled in that mesmerizing blue with what looked like golden starburst patterns adorning the top. It lay mostly limp on the stone but the tip twitched in aggravation.

Damen finally looked higher, dreading the face of a creature with such appendages. When he saw, he let out a deep unsteady breath.

Contrary to his silhouette, the beast was more animal than man in his features. His preference for high collars made sense because his neck was too long, impossibly long; it bobbed above his delicate shoulders like a snake, languorously moving his head in a hypnotic swaying. The snake theme also manifested in two flaps of scaled flesh that protruded from the side of his head. Damen had seen something like them once before on a snake called a cobra in a Patran zoo. Feathers sprouted all down the back of this cobra-like hood and from the top of his head, the same color as the golden starbursts on his tail. With blurred vision, it might have looked like a long mane of gorgeous blonde hair.

His nose was almost flat, and scales covered the entirety of his face. His mouth possessed strangely plump human lips, though they were also covered with delicate little scales. His eyes were the most arresting part of his features: electric blue with voids for pupils, currently the pupils were wide like diamonds, another sign of intoxication, but Damen had no doubts that they could be narrow slits when he was angry. The beast did not blink as a normal man. He held his top and bottom lids open widely, and a third membranous eyelid slid horizontally across his lenses every so often.

Damen had never seen any creature like this, not in the swamps near Thrace’s coastline, not in the desert surrounding Bazal. He was a reptile, a snake, a great lizard, and he was hideous.

Damen met his eye line and watched the beast watching him. After a long minute, perhaps the longest of Damen’s life, the beast dropped his spell hand with a growl, and Damen’s face was released.

“You aren’t afraid.” The beast spat.

“No,” Damen said quietly, with a hardness to his tone. He was not afraid. Not even all that repulsed, though disgust had crossed his mind initially. He felt something like anger, but he wasn’t sure whether it was actually directed towards the beast.

Whoever had transmogrified this man’s body was also a monster, Damen had no doubt. 

Damen felt compelled strongly, the way he felt when he witnessed a great moral failing. Without thinking about consequences, Damen blurted, “Who did this to you? Can I help you break it?”

The beast had not been expecting that. He ripped his claws from the bars as if burned, then swayed on his feet until his back hit the stone wall behind him.

“Help, from a -” The beast sputtered some hisses for a few breaths. He had a forked tongue. “From a barbarian,” he sighed out, “From the prince-killer.”

He obviously was not speaking to Damen. His strange eyes were opened wide, and Damen noticed that he glanced into the adjacent cell a few times, which seemed to harden his expression.

Finally, he stepped up to the bars again and deliberately stuck his clawed foot through the open meal slot at the bottom of the bars. 

“If you do not fear me, then kiss my claw.”

Damen looked at his foot mutely. The claw was raised in a menacing capacity, looking every bit like a weapon that could slice through Damen’s face, or his neck. It tapped the floor twice impatiently, and with horror, Damen felt the collar begin squeezing his throat.

He moved slowly forward, and the collar relaxed. On his knees, Damen lowered his head to the claw, which quivered in the air. Damen thought about how fast the claw might move, how it was sharp enough to impale.

His lips brushed the top of it in a quick peck, perfunctory and a bit defiant.

“Fool,” said the beast. He closed his fist, and Damen flew back from his place on the ground and slammed into the opposite wall of his cell. 

The wind was knocked out of him. He was dazed and his ribs hurt. The door slammed shut. When he finally looked up again, the beast was gone.

He finally succumbed to exhaustion and slept fitfully on the pillows in small increments, waking as the sun rose, and then dozing on and off until midday.

When the door opened again, he braced for more depravity from the beast but saw only Jord hopping across the threshold. Without addressing Damen, he leaned against one side of the bars, and the whole cell door swung open on its center axis.

Damen was flabbergasted. Jord grinned.

“He has a headache from drink. And he’s moving you to a guest room in the east wing. Follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps a plucked reptile!laurent down on the table in front of plato* Behold! A man!
> 
> also the bitch stuff just reminds me of this every time: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xI5vxzcMF8Q
> 
> a beast and a bitch!


	3. Damianos & Laurent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damianos & Laurent POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some major developments!! i really hope you enjoy this chapter ♡
> 
> ****TW****  
> The abuse is heavily implied in this chapter, but I promise that it's very very far from explicit. If this topic is especially triggering for you, think about skipping the third italicized section. I promise you won't miss much plot, just me nerding out about herbs.

Who did this to you?

_His memory of Marlas consisted of blurs: horseflesh and plate armor and the ground turning to a paste of dust and spilled blood. The only clear image on the entire field was the starburst banner. Laurent’s eyes stayed glued to it as the banner roiled amongst the waves of men. He would not let go, he would cling to Auguste as if his rapt attention could form an impenetrable shield against Akielon blades._

_“Remember, little prince,” Long fingers with hairy knuckles brushed the top of Laurent’s pale golden hair. “Even if he falls, we have our trapdoor.”_

_“He won’t fall.” Laurent had said with determination. If cast-iron will alone could nudge fate, even slightly, then Laurent was going to believe in Auguste as hard as he could. He would leave no room for another outcome._

_Damianos of Akielos skewered his brother. The trapdoor opened._

~~~~

“He’s moving you to a guest room in the east wing. Follow me.”

Jord tapped out of the tower jail and began hopping the steps down the spiral staircase. He did not look at the adjacent cell with the sleeping noble, almost adamantly so. 

Damen was groggy and his torso ached from the beast’s rough treatment the night before, but he rose with haste and followed numbly behind Jord.

“Is Nikandros okay?” Damen asked quietly.

Jord was three steps ahead, and he paused his hopping. “He made it out of the woods.”

The knot in Damen’s gut unwound itself from a tense coil to an uneasy spiral.

“We took care of him here. I want you to know,” Jord squawked suddenly. He skipped down a few more steps before Damen could respond.

“You locked him in a cell for a month. You did not take care of him.” 

Damen knew full well that his ire was misplaced. Jord had thus far been hospitable and honest. Nik had spoken of a kind and flirtatious candlestick. Even the gargoyle seemed to possess some semblance of honor. It was only the beast that seemed caustic - the sorcerous beast that held men against their wills, through spells and viscous countenance.

Jord did not react to Damen’s bitterness except to adopt an expression of hardened resignation.

“We did what we could. He didn’t want for anything except his freedom, I assure you.”

“He wanted for Akielos. He was in the middle of leading the defense against a massacre -”

Jord interrupted Damen’s words: “No matter how much I pleaded with Nikandros to hold his tongue, even for one night, he never did. He pissed the master off every time they spoke. The master didn’t trust him enough to let him go. I’m sure the master was also feeling vindictive.”

“Nik is known for his fearless honesty. Maybe he was too honest for your master.”

Jord shrugged his armless shoulders and hummed in a way that showed his disapproval, but he did not deny the accusation.

“So, why this? Your master trusts me after one night? I did not show him any exceptional kindness and he seems to despise my very existence.”

“Trust? No, maybe never. And he does despise you, with good reason,” Jord said, sharp as a blade. “But you did show him kindness, and more diplomacy than he deserved. Just don’t try to get him to admit it.”

“I see that you and Nik have the same penchant for honesty.”

Jord snorted and then finished the staircase with a leap. Damen followed. The door to the foyer opened with a flourish.

In the daylight, the tall entryway still looked abandoned, but in a quaint sort of way. Muted light poured through the dirty stained glass windows and painted the air in a dazzling prismatic ambiance that fluttered amongst the dust motes. The cracked mosaic that interweaved the stone floor was an impossibly intricate expression of Veretian style: serpents riding great blue and gold waves, tiny tile eyes peeking from the depths of a deep verdant and black forest, an infinite rolling plains with leaping horses and diving chamois. 

And in the center of it all, a candelabra, grinning and bobbing forward of its own volition. 

“Bienvenue chez vous homme doux! You are even more arresting by daylight.”

Damen’s mouth hung open, but no sound followed. The candelabra circled him with interest. Warm wax spilled onto Damen’s bare shoulder.

“You are larger than Nik. Just as handsome though.”

Damen’s thoughts collected themselves in a rush, and he barked a bemused and disbelieving laugh. “Not more handsome? Nik did say you were very forward.”

The candle smiled gleefully, “He spoke of me?”

“Briefly, yes. But his words did not quite prepare me for -” Damen gestured at the moving candelabra, who wiggled his metal base suggestively, “for all of this hospitality.”

The candle beamed, and the small flames on his wicks flared brightly for a beat.

“Flattery will get you everywhere with me. I am Lazar, your highness,”

“Just Damen is fine.” He grasped one of Lazar’s extended arm candles between his thumb and forefinger and shook it up and down like a hand.

Lazar, for all his boisterousness, was shocked into stillness.

“Now you’ve done it. He’s going to be more insufferable than usual.” 

The gargoyle with the smashed face marched his enormous body across the floor to rest in front of Damen. “I’m Orlant,” the gargoyle said, “If you fuck around here, I’ll take up the master’s offer to sit on your head.”

“Damen. I don’t plan to fuck around.”

“Good.” Orlant scuffed a heavy stone paw on the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly, like he was not used to the phrase, “about your friend. I did not have a choice.”

“We always have a choice,” Damen said with hard eyes.

Orlant matched his glare, “We don’t.”

Neither side made a move to give and the tension was rising. Damen was a bit larger than Nikandros, but he was no match for a giant stone statue. Jord sighed heavily and muttered something about children under his breath.

“Lazar, show Damianos to the east wing. Orlant, calm the fuck down.”

Orlant flashed an ugly grin, seeming to shake off the acerbic mood immediately, and then he saluted Jord before trudging to a pedestal near the front door. Damen assumed it was his regular post.

“Well then monsieur, without further ado, let me introduce you to the castle!”

~~~~

_“Is he dead?” Laurent said between sobs._

_He felt those long fingers rubbing through his silky hair. “No nephew. I have managed to stabilize him in a deep sleep. He will not heal, but he will not succumb to his wound.”_

_“We need to call a physician!” Laurent practically wailed, turning to bury his face in his uncle’s waistcoat. “We have to try something!”_

_“Sweet child, his wound is fatal,” he held Laurent tightly and rubbed his heaving back._

_“But you’re the best at magic uncle,” Laurent said between hiccups, “Why can’t you fix him?”_

_His fingers pet down the back of Laurent's head before they slipped minutely under his tightly laced collar. “My skills are not honed in healing, little prince. I’m afraid that my expertise cannot repair a deadly wound.”_

_Laurent’s knees gave out and he fell to the polished granite floor, still clutching the hem of his uncle’s coat. The Regent crouched down gently to Laurent’s eye line._

_“In my duty as Regent of Vere,” he paused as if tasting the title, “I will send inquiries to all corners of the continent for a magical healer skilled enough to revive Auguste. We must be discreet - Vere cannot seem unstable, like it is waiting for the ascension of a dead king.”_

_Laurent’s watery eyes glimmered erratically in the candlelight._

_“In the meantime, you must stay here with your brother and your household at Acquitart. If the Akielons knew that either of you survived, they would storm this castle and kill you both.”_

_“Yes uncle,” Laurent warbled._

~~~~

“Most of the time, Jord is on the training grounds, or else he’s out doing whatever the master bids,” Lazar said breezily as they broached the large staircase in the center of the room. “Orlant watches the front door and the courtyard. He naps often.”

Orlant snorted from across the room, but he did look decidedly sleepy.

“Was it you that gave me directions to Nik’s cell?” Damen asked Lazar, suddenly remembering the candelabra by the stairs the previous night.

“It was. Don’t tell the master.” Lazar pressed the side of one candle to Damen’s closed mouth in a universal gesture for silence. Wax smudged his cheek.

“I wouldn’t. I owe you more than that.”

“I take payment in many ways!” Lazar laughed.

They ascended the stairs to a wide landing which was flanked with more statues and several suits of golden armor. There were a myriad of detailed vases edged in gold on pedestals; they might have once held fresh flowers. Twin sets of stairs rose from the landing, curving slightly to the left and right.

“The east wing is this way,” Lazar pointed to the right. His tone dropped with a conspiratorial edge, “You may wander anywhere within the bounds of this castle and the forest, except the west wing.” He pointed to the left. “Those are the master’s quarters. If you have any sense of self-preservation, do not disturb him.”

Lazar scuttled up the stairs to the east and Damen followed, taking just a moment to look over his shoulder towards the west wing.

~~~~

_Licorice root. Uncle always smelled like licorice root._

_Licorice root was water aligned. Licorice root was used to incite passion and was used in love spells._

_Uncle must love him._

_"I use so much of my power to keep Auguste’s spell active. I must have energy left to rule Vere in your brother's stead. Nephew, will you help me raise more power? For your brother’s sake?”_

_Lilac was the next herb alphabetically in his study guide. Lilac was also water aligned. Lilac was used in spells to drive away evil. Lilac was used for protection._

_“Don’t worry little prince, I can teach you how. You’ve always wanted to learn sorcery, after all."_

_Lime was next. Lime was fire aligned. Oil of lime could break hexes. Lime slices worn around the neck could heal a sore throat._

_"You always give me so much power, Laurent."_

_Linden was air aligned. Linden bark prevented intoxication. Crushed linden leaves could bring sleep to those with insomnia. Linden was associated with immortality._

_"Thank you, uncle."_

~~~~

The first room they entered was set up as a clinic, albeit a strange one. Damen saw traditional phials of multicolor medicines on the shelves, jars with pungent salves, and reams of tidily folded cloth bandages. Alongside these were small pieces of lumber, knobs for drawers, nails and saws, a stonemason’s hammer and chisel, cement powder, and a pot of some odorous glue.

“Paschal is our castle physician, excellent at mending flesh, wood, stone, ceramic, and porcelain, amongst other things. He will see to your ribs and bruises.” Lazar stared shamelessly at Damen’s torso for several long seconds before a gravelly voice spoke:

“Physician or repairman?” A great wardrobe that Damen’s eyes had glanced over pivoted on one of its clawed feet and revolved to face him. A face-like pattern in the wood grain had contorted into a bemused countenance before shuttering to a neutral visage.

“The master left a potion for you.” One of the wardrobe doors opened and revealed a copper-colored liquid in a small vial. Damen took it from the shelf.

“Drink it immediately. Take this -” A decorative hexagonal piece of wooden lattice on the side of the wardrobe unfurled with a creak and snatched a salve from the nearest shelf. Paschal balanced the jar and set it neatly into Damen’s outstretched hands.

“Massage it gently into the bruising before bed.”

“This isn’t poison, it is?” Damen said, half-joking.

“If the master planned to kill you immediately,” Paschal leveled him with an even stare, “you would already be dead.” The wardrobe turned around again, and Damen recognized the dismissal.

Lazar led him from the room then down the hall. Damen uncorked the vial and drank the potion without letting the liquid touch his tongue. He used a similar technique on griva nights with Makedon. Even so, the herbal fumes that seared up his throat were enough to make his eyes water.

“The next room will be more fun, I assure you.” Lazar looped one of his candles through the crook of Damen’s arm, grinning a slight apology when the flame licked once against Damen’s bicep. They walked through a sharply arched doorway.

“Finally. I didn’t get to play with the other one at all,” a voice pouted from the interior of the room.

Damen saw a dress form with a realistically carved head and arms. It swayed gracefully across the room, draped in a deep green swath of silk that had tiny red gems embedded into the fabric. The head was framed with a hip-length piece of plush crimson velvet, dotted with contrasting green gems, that pleated elegantly around his face and off the narrow shoulders of the dress form. Out of all the bewitched men that Damen had met so far, this one mimicked humanity the best and was quite lovely.

“You’re huge. If I can’t find anything large enough in the closet, you’ll have to wear a bedsheet.”

“Not a problem,” Damen said with a brilliant smile, removing the top pin of his dirty chiton and letting the long formerly white swath of fabric fall away from his chest in one piece. “I have practice.” 

“You’re about to get some more,” the dress form pouted its full lips, “practice.”

Lazar cleared his throat good-naturedly. “I’m going to tell Huet to prepare a light lunch. Don’t scare him, Ancel,” he said with a wink.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ancel.”

“The pleasure hasn’t begun yet. I’m quite good.”

The base of the dress form had delicate metal wheels attached - Ancel rolled himself to an open side doorway. Damen saw garments in endless cuts and colors hanging in neat rows beyond the threshold. Ancel’s carved arms moved stiffly but with much accuracy as he systematically picked through the clothes, occasionally tossing a loose shirt or pair of trousers onto Damen’s head.

By the time Ancel had picked through everything, Damen had tried on most of the garments. He found two pairs of trousers that would accommodate his waist and thighs, but they were both slightly short. The shirts were more comfortable, showcasing the popular Veretian fashion of widely puffed sleeves tapering into tightly tailored wrists. Damen cared more that he could move his arms without ripping the seams and, if he left the top laces open, the shirt didn’t pull too tightly across the plane of his broad chest. 

Ancel looked on with a searing expression. “The fit is poor. But you’d look good in anything.” He wheeled closer and then around Damen, looking at him from all angles.

“Would you like jewelry to match your collar?”

Damen faltered and felt his gut drop. For hours now, he had let the novelty of this particular imprisonment overshadow its cruelty. It was too easy to get wrapped up in this place. Damen vowed to not lose himself in it.

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

Ancel continued to circle him. “I could take the ankle seams out. But your feet are larger than any shoes we have here. I hope you like those hideous sandals.”

Damen chuckled and Ancel slunk around him, brushing the waistband of his trousers.

“I wish I still had a tongue,” Ancel said, “Or a throat.” He leaned in close to Damen’s chest.

“Or an ass.”

Lazar announced his return, and Ancel retreated slightly with a smug and satisfied smirk. Damen bent his flushed face to retrieve his clothes and the jar of salve.

“Until next time,” Damen said politely to Ancel before turning to rejoin Lazar.

“I’ll be waiting.” 

~~~~

_He arrived at Acquitart early in the morning. Laurent leapt out of bed in his thin sleeping shirt and bare feet, scrambling down the grand staircase to jump into his Uncle's arms._

_"You've been away for too long, Uncle! I missed you."_

_The Regent patted his head fondly then tranced his fingers down Laurent's jawline. He felt something slightly rough, a ghost of adolescent morning stubble. He ripped his touch away._

_"You’re growing into a man, Laurent," the Regent said distantly._

_Laurent's chest puffed with pride. He imagined finally finding a way to heal Auguste, imagined standing tall next to his brother, the newly crowned starburst king. Imagined uncle smiling with joy the way father would have._

_"I won’t need your services today Laurent. I have come to look upon my assets."_

_Laurent’s heart contracted like it had been caught sneaking. "That's okay uncle. Are we going to learn more sorcery today?"_

_"I don’t have time for that Laurent."_

_"Oh. Well, have you received any responses to the letters you sent? The ones for the healers?"_

_"Selfish boy," the Regent hissed. "You cannot even comprehend the amount of work it takes to rule Vere. The world doesn’t revolve around your needs. You are a spoiled prince who knows nothing except to want."_

_"Uncle -"_

__

__

_"Do you ask questions just to antagonize me?"_

_"No, I just don't understand."_

_"You are ungrateful. Learn and display humility by the time I return, or I will make you learn."_

~~~~

Lazar led Damen to a modest set of chambers that housed a bedroom and a separate washing room. An arched window let in pale natural light. The bedroom contained a non-sentient wardrobe where Damen stored his clothes and the salve.

“Damen, meet Huet. He was always the best camp cook in the guard, so the gods saw it fit to make him a teapot.”

Damen sat down at the small table near the window. Huet fluidly moved his porcelain appendages to arrange a satisfying spread, then he tipped himself sideways and a steaming herbal tea poured into a waiting teacup.

“Hope you enjoy, your highness,” Huet said formally.

“Please, call me Damen. Thank you, this looks delicious.”

On the table were delightfully fluffy loaves of bread in a basket, still slightly warm, with flaky crusts and chewy centers. Some had dried fruits and nuts sewn into them; some were laced with intoxicating spices. There was an array of multicolored fruit spreads, a shallow dish of cream cheese, assorted butters, and bowls of fresh berries with sweet cream.

Compared to Damen’s last camp meal of lamb jerky and lukewarm cider, this was decadence.

He ate all of it - halfway through, an amused Lazar and an awed Huet took their leave.

On his way out, Lazar exclaimed, “Oh, one last thing - the master has requested you at dinner tonight. Wear your new clothes, come down to the foyer at sundown, and we will escort you to the dining room. À bientôt Damen!”

Damen finished shoving bread into his mouth. He wanted to get his bearings of the castle, look for possible escape routes, and begin to test the bounds of his collar. But it was also late afternoon - the shadows were growing long in the forest, and he only had a few hours before he would be required at dinner. It would be better to begin first thing in the morning. 

Damen poked around the washing room, then lay flat on the bed. It was wide enough for two average people, or Damen, and certainly more comfortable than the pillow pallet in the cell.

He fell into a light doze, a soldier's nap, resting but half awake and still somewhat aware of the darkness encroaching on the castle. When he heard torches flaring to light in the hallway outside of his room, he rose, adjusted his rumpled attire, tried to fluff his unruly brown curls into some semblance of order, and then walked to the foyer.

“Just on time!” Said Lazar as Damen descended the stairs. He stood to the right of the grand staircase, just as Damen had first unknowingly seen him the night before.

“The master,” Lazar whispered, “will be down soon, but I prefer to have you seated before then.”

With a wide smile, he walked with Damen through a large pillared threshold, into a gilded dining room. The walls were paneled and painted with gold, and a chandelier with hundreds of glowing candles flickered above the table. Two distinct places were already set at the two ends of the long table. It was farther apart than Damen would have sat with a friend or a lover, but it would be out of striking distance when the beast arrived. Damen sat gently in his chair, placed his delicate napkin onto his lap, as Veretian manners dictated, and waited. 

When he arrived, it was fairly anticlimactic. He did not storm or burst in the room, but flowed smoothly to his chair and sat, like a drop creating a delicate ripple on still water.

He sat with perfect poise, though tension certainly held his body rigidly. As he lifted his gaze to languidly stare across the table, Damen noticed with confusion that he looked decidedly less monstrous than the night before.

He still had scales and claws and a tail, but above his shoulders, human features dominated his appearance, unlike last night. Blue scales ran up his neck, which was much shorter and less snake-like, but still on the cusp of being strange. The scales stopped along his sharp jawline, and from beneath the scales bloomed the most flawless alabaster complexion Damen had ever seen. His lips, previously covered in scales, were full and pink; his nose was human, straight and long on his face. A few scales brushed along his high cheekbones, acting like a reverse blush, making his skin look like cold flame. Even the cobra hood and the feathers were changed into soft folds of downy gold that draped elegantly around his face. His eyes were unchanged though - reptilian and calculating, with the third unnerving horizontal eyelid.

“Ask,” the beast said after several minutes of silence.

“You look different.” The human part of him was beautiful, Damen realized with a shiver.

“That is not a question.”

Damen chose his words carefully. “Can you tell me why your face has changed?”

The beast pinned him with those electric eyes, then took a sip from the goblet in front of him.

“If I concentrate, I can make the curse recede slightly. I thought it might be easier to converse this way.”

“You’re performing magic right now?”

“I’m always performing magic, prince-killer.” The bite from last night had reappeared, and Damen schooled his features into neutrality. “There are a thousand spells of my design in this forest that draw on my power.”

“I see,” said Damen.

They remained silent while the dishes were served by Huet and a serving trolley named Rochert. Though Damen had eaten an enormous late lunch, his stomach rumbled at the smell of roast duck dressed in peppercorns and raspberry vinegar, alongside small salted new potatoes roasted with sprigs of fresh rosemary. 

They each received a duck, and Damen tried to shave off small pieces of meat in a delicate way. Had he been at an Akielon feast, he might have speared it with the roasting fork and ripped chunks off with his teeth, or else cut away large slices with his hunting knife. In this bombastic dining room, it would certainly be inappropriate. He was mostly trying not to clink the silverware against the delicate plates. 

The beast was doing an irritatingly good job of not clinking, and he had claws for hands.

The ducks were pushed aside after a while, and though Damen was pleased that he had shown impeccable manners, he was displeased that the beast had not spoken again. His voice was lilting and melodious, rising and falling between tenor and baritone. Damen thought of the snake charmers he had once seen in Bazal and wondered if the snakes ever charmed them back.

Dessert was a sweet plum tart dressed with candied orange peels. Damen noticed with amusement that the beast ate every last crumb.

Huet and Rochert did not return to collect the plates, and Damen suspected that the beast had requested privacy. He steeled himself for a thrashing and hoped for civility.

Finally, the beast spoke. 

“I want to discuss the details of our arrangement.” 

“You mean my enslavement?” Damen said without thinking. He wanted to hit himself a second later. So much for a chance at civility.

Surprisingly, the beast smiled, close-lipped and deadly, like a predator that knows his prey cannot escape.

“Yes, your enslavement.” 

He took a slow drink from his goblet, eyes never leaving Damen. There was no doubt that those eyes could hypnotize if the mind behind them wished it.

“Your duties will primarily consist of retrieving spell ingredients,” said the beast, now taking on a more business-like tone, “My men and I can only venture a certain distance from the walls of Acquitart before the curse blocks our passage. Many herbs and minerals that I need from the forest lie beyond these barriers, so you will retrieve them.”

“How far can I travel before -” Damen gestured at his throat.

The beast again flashed his wicked predator smile. “The closer to the edge of the woods you go, on any side, from any angle, the tighter it becomes.” Damen could hear a claw tapping rapidly on the floor under the table. 

“But, you should not feel adverse effects if you travel only where I send you.” He drank insouciantly from the goblet again, and it took every rigid muscle of Damen’s discipline not to lash out at this haughty young lord.

“Something to say, brute?”

Damen’s face always gave him away.

“You’re sadistic,” he said in shaky tones, “You left Nik in a cell to rot, and now you put me in a slave’s collar, bewitched to your bidding. Whatever you have been through can’t possibly warrant this level of cruelty.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Your friend remained in the cell because I could not break his violent and insubordinate tendencies, even after a month.” The beast’s voice was filled with an ugly cousin of bemusement, satisfied and taunting. “You are in a collar because I broke you immediately, you dumb animal.”

Damen gaped. The beast lifted his carving fork and skewered the cold duck carcass left behind from his dinner. 

He met Damen’s furious gaze and opened his mouth. Wider and wider, until it reached the corners of his lips, then the alabaster skin parted beyond his lips, all the way up his jawline, opening further still, and a membranous layer stretched between the open portions of his face. He was a gaping maw, impossibly wide with great fangs protruding, stretched, and secreting a clear liquid in crystalline droplets - in a beat, he consumed the duck carcass from the end of the fork, swallowing it whole, working it quickly down his throat and then closing his face.

After less than ten seconds of horror, his features schooled again into a beautiful, if unnatural, visage.

“The bones help my digestion.”

The beast rose and swept from the room as he had entered it: silent as a fish darting into the depths of a stream.

~~~~

_"You dare ask me for healers again.”_

_“I mean no offense, uncle, I swear! It's just - it’s been over a year.”_

_Not for the first time, Laurent felt afraid of the man standing before him. Hot tears slipped down his pale cheeks as he did his best to meet the intensity of the Regent’s disgusted gaze._

_“You are a man now, yet you still cry? You still cling to the childish notion that your brother lives?"_

_"But -"_

_"Silence. I see that the lesson I asked you to learn has sat untouched.”_

_Laurent felt magic being pulled from the invisible skein of ley lines under Acquitart, felt the latent energy of the room rushing past him, gathering around the Regent._

_“Uncle, please -”_

_“I should have realized by now that you learn best through experience."_

_A spell burst through the air like a sound wave, so acute that Laurent could taste it. The Regent looked haughty and terrible. Laurent closed his eyes and trembled against his power, against the blinding flash of the potent curse, feeling the remnants of his tears slip hotly down his face. The enchantment howled in his ears and shook the foundation of the castle._

_Laurent felt cold, he felt stiff, he felt elongated and stretched thin._

_"Abominable creature. You have until you come of age to learn my lesson. If you haven’t learned by then to fully accept and return the love that is given to you, then you and your loyalists can live in these forms for a lifetime."_

_"What about Auguste?" Laurent's tongue felt strange in his mouth._

_His uncle laughed, ugly and grating. "He wakes the moment you turn twenty-one. Save him if you can."_

~~~~

Damen went to bed with a searing headache. The beast and his carcass, splitting his human face in two, it made Damen want to claw the skin from his body. He felt like he had bathed in excrement, and every time his mind procured the image, he felt the need to retch.

It was the perfect image to represent the perversion of this place; had the young master been wearing his reptile face, the scene wouldn’t have crushed him with the same impact. 

The beast calculated it. He planned for every single reaction.

He wore a beautiful human face, knowing that Damen would be drawn in. Then he cracked himself open and spilled his malefic innards, poisoning the room before drawing away as if nothing had happened.

And that was just the look of his mouth. The words that flew from it were like arrows, no doubt tipped in venom. Whoever this man used to be, the curse had rotted him away. Damen questioned whether his heart felt anything at all except depravity and impish satisfaction at misfortune.

He did finally sleep, fitfully. His brain dreamed of great serpents on the battlefield of Marlas, of fighting a living golden statue of Prince Auguste until its face melted into a pool of liquid gold on the ground, of that puddle turning to blood, of fangs wrapping around his neck and pumping his head full of venom until his eyes burst from their sockets.

He woke with determination to find an escape from the castle, from the curse. From the pit of snakes with the beautiful face. 

Regardless of the curse, time flowed here, and Damen didn’t intend to waste it.

Every morning, Damen’s tasks for the day were delivered with breakfast, about an hour after dawn. They were always beautifully penned in a rich looping scrawl onto a folded bit of parchment and tucked beside his eggs or porridge. The beast mostly requested herbs, and the list always contained enough work to last until late afternoon or dusk. 

Next to some of the more obscure ingredients, the beast helpfully illustrated what he wanted with immaculate quill strokes and delicate ink shading. Despite himself, Damen kept the lists with the illustrations - he couldn’t stand the idea of tossing the lifelike pictures into the fireplace at the end of the day. The list requesting a stag’s liver was accompanied by a bisected illustration of a deer, indicating where to cut and what organ to pull. Even it was beautiful, in a gruesome way. 

Damen worried about how much of the castle’s magic had seeped into his mind.

He tested the bounds of his collar at each opportunity and found himself halfway to strangled every time. It would always tighten when he was close enough to the forest’s edge that the trees began to thin. Once he caught a glimpse of an open rolling field before he had to fall back, gasping. He wondered if the beast knew that he tried and could somehow feel that his spell was activating. Damen’s racing pulse underneath the collar felt sometimes like a satisfied and malignant chuckle.

After almost a month of captivity, he had traipsed back and forth through the forest endlessly, gathering plants and chunks of rock with minute crystals, strange insects stuck in sap, round underground fungi that were black as pitch, and the organs of various animals. If the animal was even slightly edible, Damen always brought it back to the castle, unwilling to desecrate the creature by wasting its flesh.

He did not have to dine with the beast again. He rarely saw him, mostly in the dead of night. They would cross paths in silence, the beast slinking through the castle like a ghost, and Damen skirting the edges of shadow like a great panther. The beast almost always wore his human face.

The other castle inhabitants were good for a laugh, and several of them were fun to flirt with. Orlant grew on Damen rather quickly, and the two had a running commentary about the beast being a frigid cast-iron bitch. 

In Damen’s small moments of idle time, he found Jord on the training grounds. Jord had arm attachments for his pell body that enabled him to proficiently wield sword, spear, or axe. It was not quite like fighting a man, but Damen never had to pull his blows because Jord had a body made for taking those hits. Jord once admitted quietly that he could barely feel anything anymore, and Damen felt his heart constrict.

Sometimes in the castle, Damen felt like he was suddenly filled with static or a hissing thrum of energy under his skin. It was highly uncomfortable. Lazar noticed Damen squirming one night as they gambled with dice over worthless trinkets, and, after some ribbing, Lazar had explained that the feeling came when the master attempted to manipulate the curse on the castle.

On one of these static nights, Damen had long abandoned trying to sleep. He descended the stairs of the east wing, planning to light a fire in the parlor.

From the shadowy gloom of the west wing, Damen heard a high-pitched scream. It cut off suddenly, ringing on the stone.

Damen didn’t even think. He ran to the landing and then bounded up to the west wing.

“Hello!” Damen said frantically. “Is someone injured?”

Another blood-freezing shriek, this time from down the hall. Damen moved quickly through a large dark archway and almost tripped over his sandals when a dark mass detached from the shadows stopped in front of him.

It was a doll. It stood by itself, almost as tall as Damen’s knees, and cackled. It made Damen’s skin prickle. Its limbs were porcelain and delicate, and it had enormous eyes the color of sapphires in candlelight. The doll was an almost perfect replica of a young boy in miniature. It would have been awe-inspiring had the doll not been acting like it was possessed by dark magic

“I can’t believe you fell for that!” The doll giggled maniacally. “You’re so stupid.”

“Are you ok?” Damen asked, dumbly.

“I’ll bet you love that,” the doll said with a crass tone, “You love to come and save the day. If you save the right person, you might get your Akielon donkey cock sucked.”

Damen recoiled from the doll - it was a child’s toy and perhaps an actual bewitched child - those words should not have come so easily to his lips.

“I’m sorry -” Damen sputtered, and turned to walk away. He could not deal with whatever - whoever - that thing was.

“Hey, fuck you, I wasn’t done. Come here!”

Damen glanced over his shoulder and saw the doll dart unnaturally fast into a side room.

“In here!” The doll said with a child’s giggle.

Damen thought bleakly that should have stayed in bed tonight.

He stepped into the side room, against all of his best instincts, and looked for the doll. A fireplace in the corner both warmed and illuminated the room in soft golden light. 

Damen was surprised at the disarray of the objects in this room. There were portraits on the walls that had been slashed to ribbons and once-fluffy armchairs with puncture marks that oozed stuffing. A table was overturned and shattered ceramic pieces littered the floor. Damen saw specks of what he thought to be dried blood.

In the center of the room was an enormous bed with a carved frame of dark wood, piled with a heavy velvet blanket. A man slept soundly in the bed with his strawberry golden hair spilled across the pillows.

The doll suddenly screamed from the black corner by the door, and Damen jumped out of his skin. It fled from the room and left behind a trail of taunting laughter.

Damen was afraid that the sleeping man had woken. He eyed him for a moment, and seeing no movement, Damen stepped forward, quietly and reverently. The face of the sleeping man came into focus under the firelight.

Damen remembered the smell of mud and blood, the gutted feeling of being disarmed by an intricate parry, the satisfying give of a sword through an enemy’s flesh.

It was Auguste, Crown Prince - no, King - of Vere.

“Get. Out.”

Damen’s body was whirled around and slammed with immense force into the opposite wall. He saw the crazed beast place his body between Damen and Auguste, rage gripping his reptilian features, his pupils stilettos that could slice Damen to pieces.

From this vantage, Damen caught a glimpse of a shredded portrait up close. Between the cuts, Damen saw a familiar blonde man, only younger, on the cusp of adolescence, bright blue eyes holding light like a lantern. He was painted next to the man in the bed, a man that could only be his older brother, Auguste. 

“Prince Laurent?” Damen croaked.

“LEAVE,” roared the beast, Laurent of Vere. 

Damen scrambled to his feet, trying desperately to outrun the thrashing serpent. He felt twin strikes, sharp as lightning, and pain ripped through the skin of his back. Blood gushed through his shirt, warm like a cloak, dripping down his legs into the soles of his sandals. Damen felt the wind from the next slash of the beast’s claws, but he was already running, gaining speed on his long legs.

He burst through the front doors of Acquitart and ran into the dark forest.

~~~~

_Auguste. Auguste. Auguste._

_Laurent’s mind repeated his name like an incantation as he checked Auguste’s sleeping body for signs that the prince-killer had tried to finish what he started._

_Auguste was the same, ever sleeping, and Laurent relaxed minutely, though the adrenaline still coursed through his blood. The wound through Auguste's torso was still open and sticky, as if Damianos had run him through only minutes before._

_Laurent stalked towards the doorway, neck first, intending to flay the castle staff and create a spell that would prevent Damianos from ever entering again. He thought of the collar, thought of killing him that instant. But he also enjoyed the idea of a hexed Damianos wandering the forest until he killed himself._

_A noise caught Laurent’s attention from the next room. Nicaise trotted across the threshold on his doll legs, looking meek. His narrow shoulders were sloped inward, and those big eyes squinted at the floor._

_“Fuck. I did it, Laurent.” It was clearly a difficult admission to make. “I was just bored and fucking around with him. I didn’t think about it.” Nicaise looked up with those big round eyes and glanced at Auguste. “I led him in here. I didn’t think.” He was babbling._

_“I don’t want to ruin our last chance to break the curse. If we lose him - ” Nicaise said with a shudder that clicked his porcelain limbs in their sockets, “I don’t want that to be my fault.”_

_Laurent felt his throat stick._

_“It’s not your fault,” he rasped. “It will never be your fault.”_

_Close to the castle, wolves began to howl. Nicaise’s eyes widened fully._

_“The blood,” he said._

~~~~ 

Damen ran, not caring about his direction, trying to put as many steps between himself and Acquitart as possible. His back was soaked in blood, and the beating of his heart sent white pulses into his vision - he knew it was a bad wound, a deep wound. Possibly a mortal wound. 

The brush rustled in front of him, and he was surrounded suddenly by eyes that glowed with faint traces of moonlight. Wolves.

One of them howled and it sounded like the screams of the dead in the underworld. They could smell the blood; they licked their muzzles and growled low. Damen couldn’t fight even one in this dizzied state, much less a whole pack. He hoped Nikandros had listed his cause of death as wolves after all, for the accuracy of soon to be written history.

There was no preamble between predator and prey. The huge leader of the pack crouched and then leaped at Damen with flashing deadly teeth, going for his throat.

Damen felt incisors sliding against the metal of his collar before they were suddenly wrenched away by a greater set of teeth.

The beast struck the wolf with his great fangs, burying them deep into the wolf’s neck. A blast of magic sent the wolf flying into the side of a tree. It was dead before it hit the ground.

Two more wolves charged. One latched onto a scaly shoulder with its teeth, and the beast swiveled his snake head to bite the wolf, while simultaneously using the deadly claws on his feet to slash at the underbelly of the other. Wolf innards spilled onto the forest floor. Damen dazedly remembered kissing that claw.

He was a great serpent, a predator of no equal. After a moment of weighing their options, the rest of the wolf pack retreated and rejoined the darkness of the night, likely to wait at a distance for the beast to leave so they could cannibalize their slain pack members. Not the meal they anticipated, but a meal nonetheless.

The beast turned heaving towards Damen, who was in too much pain and shock to react or feel afraid. He pressed a scaled palm to the flesh of Damen’s back, and instantly, Damen felt the wounds knitting, the gaps of his skin closing, the blood seepage slowing and then stopping. There would be scars, but Damen would survive.

When he finished, he locked Damen with an electric and unreadable expression, sighed heavily, and then promptly fainted.

Damen caught him. He was cold. His bite wound was jagged with torn scales and cool red leaking blood. Damen lifted and carried the beast back to the castle, cradling a feathered head against his broad shoulder

The boar knocker on the front door (a crotchety man named Arnoul who Orlant despised) shouted for the guard and flung the front doors wide open. Damen stepped into the parlor and arranged the unconscious prince neatly on a chaise, stabilizing his head with a pillow. The room was soon teeming with living furniture, and someone stoked a fire. Paschal rumbled in and directed Damen to disinfect and dress Laurent’s bite. He also handed Damen another salve and instructed that he would need to rub it on his own back before bed.

Everyone left the parlor eventually except for Orlant, who had instructions to fetch Paschal when the prince awakened, and Damen, who couldn’t bear to leave for some reason.

It was close to morning when Laurent’s eyes fluttered open. Orlant was sleeping. Damen perked up instantly.

Laurent took stock of the room, his eyes catching on Damen before sliding over and past him. He adjusted his body slightly to examine the bandage on his shoulder.

Minutes of quiet passed uncomfortably. Damen felt like he was suspended from a cliff.

“Ask,” the beast said finally, after the silence held enough weight to crush.

“Prince Laurent of Vere?”

“Yes?”

“Are you actually venomous?”

Laurent threw his head back and laughed in three sharp barks, exposing those long fangs to the firelight.

“Yes. Highly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the herbal info in this fic is all accurate based on Cunningham's Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs :)
> 
> if you are interested in magic and the occult, pretty much anything by Scott Cunningham is a worthwhile read or reference!!


	4. Nikandros & Damianos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nikandros & Damianos POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! this chapter i think has a little less OOMPH than the last one, but we needed some ~exposition~ so have a lot of dialogue, have laurent thawing a little and damen falling for a monster despite everything

When Nikandros stumbled out of the treeline with two horses and no Damianos, the Akielon night watch blew their horns in a frenzied clangor. The mountains rumbled in their slumber at the cacophony and all the nesting birds took flight, blotting out the stars like a pestilence upon the sky. Nikandros knew he looked haggard. One glance into his eyes was enough to turn Aktis sallow.

“Damianos is dead. Send word to Ios.”

Nikandros released the horses, not caring where they went. He did not want to be a leader. He wanted to set the mantle of Kyros alight and use it to burn the forest, and its magic, to the ground.

The Akielon camp had grown since Nikandros went missing. Damen brought men, as requested, and their ranks swelled the camp to the size of a modest town. Several times, Aktis urged Nikandros to see the physicians, to rest in his tent. He refused, vehemently. Instead, he trudged a heavy path towards the gates of Tarasis. When his guard tried to follow him, he leveled them with a glare that could shred men on the battlefield. He proceeded alone.

In his absence, the majority of the bodies had been buried, though there was still some recent evidence of putrefaction in the streets. Most of the rubble was gone - larger pieces were arranged into great piles that would be later removed by teams of oxen. The village looked like a cracked eggshell, with its fractured stone walls and hollow interior. 

Nikandros walked to the defunct fountain in the square, and his steps echoed on the silent stone as if he was in a catacomb. The rectangular fountain basin was carved of white marble, like the stone of the palace at Ios. It collected rainwater but was stagnant, so scum had begun to bloom on the sides and bottom. The stone was a sickly shade of chartreuse and the fountain emitted a constant effluvium of decay. He sat on the edge of the stone and let his limbs go loose in their sockets.

He remained there as the moon became heavy and sunk towards the horizon, as the stars faded away before the impending dawn. He remained as the Akielon camp came to life with the familiar shouts of the changing guard and the clopping of horses being sent through their paces. He remained as the day grew humid and sweat began to accumulate in his substantial beard.

He wanted to sit there forever. 

A horse approached at midday and Nikandros almost shouted at the rider for breaking his solitude, for trying to draw him back into a reality where he would suffer.

“Kyros, you have a visitor,” Aktis said as he dismounted and then helped a smaller rider down.

Nikandros looked up, bleary-eyed, to see Hypatia. She stood a few paces in front of him and crossed her arms, which were bare - her bandages were gone and her burns had grown less shiny in the last month. She wore a cloth tied around her eye and knotted on the side of her head. Her small frame looked like a young olive tree - spry and planted to endure.

“You came back,” she said.

Nikandros nodded his head slowly, not trusting his voice.

She walked forward tentatively, as a fawn would, and sat next to him on the fountain. Her toes barely brushed the ground and she kicked her heels against the white stone a few times.

“You don’t feel like you’re back, do you?”

Nikandros turned, brows raised to stare at her. He shook his head.

“I think it’s the worst feeling in the world,” Hypatia whispered, “to try your hardest and still -” she sighed and shut her eye, “they’re gone.”

She rose to her knees and balanced on the wall of the fountain, then wrapped her scarred arms around Nikandros’s neck. After a second, he returned the hug, gentle on her still-healing burns. He felt tears on his shoulder and squeezed her a little more tightly.

They embraced for several minutes, though Nikandros could barely discern the passage of time. Aktis was silent, preserving the sanctity of the moment. Hypatia sniffled for a while and then ceased, and if Nikandros let a few tears fall, that was his business. When she finally pulled away and jumped to the ground, hands on her hips, Nikandros rose to follow her.

Damen was his dearest friend, but he had other obligations and other people that he cared about. For their sake, he had to keep moving. He needed to fulfill the promise he made at the Kingsmeet when Theomedes named him Kyros of Delpha and Damen had interrupted with an unceremonious whoop of pure jubilation.

For Damen. And for Akielos.

Aktis’s gentle smile telegraphed that he knew the thoughts unfolding in Nikandros’s mind. He knew enough to engineer this entire scenario with Hypatia. It was an effective strategy that had pulled Nikandros back from the depths, so Nik could not begrudge him. Much.

Aktis lifted Hypatia onto the horse and then mounted himself.

“What orders do you have for us Kyros?” Aktis said with the determination of a soldier.

“Collect the officers in the war tent. We’re going to rebuild Tarasis.”

~~~~

Damen slept for a few hours after his encounter with the wolves and with Laurent. Damen thought that he might get the day off, but the daily parchment instructions came with Huet when he delivered a light lunch. The work wasn’t unwelcome - it would distract Damen from thinking too much or feeling too much. However, when Damen unfolded the parchment, instead of a list, there was only a single line:

_West wing. Fifth door on the right. Come to the tower._

There was also an illustration of the corridor with an arrow pointed at the correct door. It seemed slightly condescending, but if Laurent felt exposed from recent events, he might need to regain some semblance of an upper hand. Or else he somehow knew that Damen liked his artwork. That was a more likely prospect than Damen was comfortable with

Damen had not quite processed the paradigm-shattering events of the previous night - seeing Auguste and then unmasking Laurent had been like a twin set of emotional strikes, only eclipsed by Laurent’s real claws in his back. Being ripped apart and then healed by Laurent, carrying his cold unconscious body back to the castle, watching him laugh in the firelight - 

It was past and present colliding, attraction and revulsion, and every time Damen felt like he had a grasp on one part of it, another slipped from his understanding.

If he had learned anything so far, it was to douse any expectations or predictions about how the beast would behave - it was not possible to out-plan Laurent. Laurent directed everything in advance, with contingencies. The only thing that seemed to throw him from his game was reacting in a way he had not anticipated, which did not happen often.

Damen dressed in the one shirt he had left that was not ripped open, and the trousers without bloodstains. He sprinkled a little water on his curls and tried to flatten them but had little success. After stalling long enough that his anxiety was prickly, Damen marched to the west wing and found the correct door. He ascended a spiral staircase to what Laurent had called the tower.

The door at the top of the staircase was made of a delicate black wood that was shiny like polished obsidian. It was carved with intricate open latticework depicting great twining trees and starbursts. An opaque mist undulated and glittered amongst the open spaces of the lattice, making it impossible to see into the tower. Damen would not be surprised if the lovely swirling mist was a potent hex meant to rebuke anyone who touched the door without permission. 

“Your highness?” Damen said loudly from outside the door.

“Use the handle, barbarian,” came the muffled reply.

Damen steeled his nerves and pressed the latch of the door. It opened soundlessly into the most eccentric room he had ever seen.

It was obviously Laurent’s personal study and the place where he designed spells. The walls were completely covered in eclectic lengths of fabric, all of them with clashing colors and patterns that were way too intense for Damen’s Akielon sensibilities. If there were windows behind the fabric, Damen could not see them or any other natural light filtering into the room. Every speck of wall was covered in something; Hundreds of Laurent’s sketches hung on the walls, stuck with straight pins or knives, and some of them were so detailed that Damen for a second wished he could step into them. 

There were endless shelves of trinkets, strange mechanical marvels that pivoted in place like tops, technicolor jars of strange glowing orbs, two metal plates that suspended a miniature lightning strike between them, vines that twined their delicate stems to the ceiling, and plants that looked vaguely carnivorous. Hooks on the walls held metal and gemstone amulets, delicate golden chains, wood carvings of fantastic mythological beasts, and stiff tapestries interwoven with feathers. Crystal mobiles dangled and spun, hanging from the ceiling alongside wooden and metal wind chimes that swayed and connected softly, despite being indoors. Hundreds of bundles of herbs also hung from the ceiling and their conflicting fragrances fogged Damen’s senses.

The room was lopsided with overstuffed bookcases on one side, and also contained tables covered with further stacks of books, parchment, scrolls, and pots of ink. There was a plush daybed shoved into one corner that had several rumpled blankets strewn across it, and a few lounge chairs stacked with even more books and decadent satin pillows.

The other side of the room looked more clinical - jars of organs and fluid, vats of indeterminate viscous liquid, scalpels and metal syringes, glass beakers of herbal slurry attached to copper distillers tubing that terminated in a large simmering cauldron. There were books here as well, most of them open to various diagrams, and some of the pages looked stained with blood. 

At the center of it all, looking very natural among the chaos, was Laurent.

He wore his human face and he was frowning intently at a set of runic tiles that were arranged in staggered columns across the floor. Every few seconds, his tail would nudge a tile forward or backward in the sequence, as if trying to discern a correct order. He paused and then turned a tile sideways, and suddenly all rune lines on the tiles began to glow with warm orange light. Laurent studied the runes for a moment, then used his tail to sweep them across the floor randomly, like a child upturning a chessboard when they are losing.

“Did it work?” Damen inquired, gesturing to the tiles.

Laurent locked him with a stupefying gaze, then shrugged. “I gleaned no great insight. Just confirmation of what I already know.”

“I shouldn’t ask, right?”

“Astute, brute.” The comment was barbed, but the usual cruelty in his eyes had softened into wariness. Damen did not doubt that there were a thousand ways for the prince to kill him in this room, right at his claw-tips. Laurent did not trust Damen to be here, in his private and very personal space - he merely calculated that Damen could not win against him in a magical fight.

Laurent turned to a counter behind him, and oddly, slid a cornflower blue silk glove over one of his scaly hands. Damen could easily imagine his claws puncturing or creating runs in the smooth weave. Laurent used his gloved hand to lift a shiny dagger from the counter, then turned to Damen, face schooled to a neutral visage.

“Before we proceed any further, I need to know your intentions.”

He stepped to Damen and it was the closest they had ever been, except for last night. Except for Laurent touching his back, and Damen carrying his limp reptilian body. He gripped Damen’s forearm with the claws of his free hand, delicately, without breaking the skin, then pressed the hilt of the dagger into his open palm and closed Damen’s dark fingers around it.

Laurent lifted his chin and, with his gloved hand, pulled the knife towards his neck and nestled the stiletto’s point at the junction of his neck and jaw, right where the scales parted for pale skin. Where the point touched Laurent’s body, his flesh began to smoke. 

“If you are planning to put me out of my misery, do it now. I’ll not waste any more time on inane speculation about your intent.”

Laurent let the dagger go, let his hands fall to his sides, and waited.

Damen froze, fingers twitching. Laurent’s skin still smoked, his eyes were hard and demanding. 

Between them simmered a month of imprisoning Nikandros, a month of Damen’s own enslavement, numerous caustic statements, a bewitched collar set to kill Damen if he disobeyed. Scars across his back, a formerly defeated enemy sleeping soundly in bed. A cursed and hideous monster roaring in a bewitched castle. 

More than anything, Damen wanted to go home to Akielos. But his honor wouldn’t let him do it this way. His honor wouldn’t let him do it at all.

Damen pulled the dagger away slowly, eyes still locked to Laurent’s, and threw it across the room. It landed on one of the cushy armchairs by the bookcases.

“I’m angry with you,” Damen said, “Don’t think that I’m not.” He rubbed a large hand across his face. “But I will not cause any harm. To you, your brother, or to anyone in this castle.” He paused for a second, considering his next admission, then barreled ahead with it:

“Though, if you put the dagger in my hand, you miscalculated how much I wanted to use it.”

“Oh, I know, believe me,” said Laurent, “I know what it's like,” fermented words dripped from his lips, “to want to kill a man, and to wait.”

Damen nodded. Laurent rubbed at his neck for a moment, and the redness from the dagger seemed to recede. 

“Are you hurt?” Damen asked haltingly, mirroring Laurent’s touch to his own throat.

“The knife is silver,” said Laurent by way of explanation. He walked over to a table so littered with notes and quills that its wooden surface couldn’t be seen. He sat in a high backed chair and gestured for Damen to sit across from him.

“I need to pivot our arrangement,” Laurent said finally.

“Pivot to what?” Damen said warily.

“As you well know, myself and the inhabitants of this castle have been cursed. For years, I have been trying to break this curse,” his haughtiness waned slightly, “I have not been successful and we are running out of time.”

“What happens when you run out of time?”

Laurent’s claw rapidly tapped on the floor beneath the table. “The curse sticks forever. It will be impossible for any of us to become human again.”

Damen’s righteous ire flared, “Who would do something like this?”

Laurent’s third eyelid flicked under his long golden lashes. He ignored the question.

“As you saw with the silver dagger, there are certain substances that I cannot handle because they are highly reactive to my curse. Ironically, these reactive elements are the best chance of breaking the spell, because they visibly affect it.”

Laurent’s stunt with the dagger had not just been posturing; it was meant to be demonstrative.

“I can wear gloves to process metals or herbs in their physical form, but when I try to weave the essence of these substances into my spells, they just don’t -” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “They backfire or they fizzle out.”

“I need -” he said, as if someone was forcefully ripping the words from his throat, “a human. To facilitate. Someone without a curse.”

“What about this?” Damen said, pointing to his collar.

“That hex affects the object - your collar - not your body.”

“I see.” Damen was quiet, considering. “If I help you break your curse, will you remove it?”

“Yes,” said Lauren instantly, “If that is your price. But - there is another thing.” He took a deep breath. “The spell on my brother is separate from the curse on this castle. It was cast at Marlas, by the same sorcerer.”

Damen’s breath stuttered. Auguste had looked the same in the bed as he had at Marlas, except cleaned of blood and mud. What Veretian sorcerer would save one prince and curse the other?

“You remember gutting him, I presume.”

Damen swallowed heavily around a knot in his throat. “I remember dueling him, yes.”

“You’ll be happy to know that you inflicted a mortal wound. The spell put him in an enchanted sleep. He cannot die from his injury while under the spell, but he also cannot be healed.”

“The events of Marlas do not make me happy,” Damen whispered.

Laurent’s nostrils flared. “My brother’s spell was created before my curse, but they have since been linked. I won’t go into particulars because you’re too ignorant to understand.”

Damen huffed and shook his head, knowing that Laurent was, infuriatingly, correct.

“When the time runs out on my curse - or if the curse is broken before that time - Auguste wakes up. And I have to be ready to heal him when that happens, even if I still possess this form.”

“You healed my mortal wounds just last night,” Damen said thoughtfully, “I’m sure you have enough skill to do it again.”

Laurent tensed. The hood around his head fluttered slightly and his feathers puffed up. 

“You did not have fatal wounds,” he said slowly, “but they were close. I used almost all of my power to heal them.”

“And that’s why you fainted?”

“Yes. And your enormous arms carried me inside apparently.”

They stared at one another - the implication was loud and unspoken. Both of them had made concessions, both of them had saved the other when it wasn’t strictly necessary. Laurent must have done it because he needed a living human being in his service. Damen took Laurent from the forest because he refused to let the wolves have him. Because it was the right thing to do.

Because, despite everything, the thought of the prince succumbing to more maliciousness disturbed his heart.

“Once an injury crosses the threshold of being fatal, the energy required to reverse the process rises exponentially. In general, magic does not like to revive the dead.” Laurent cleared his throat.

“It can be done, I think.”

“You’re not sure?” Damen said.

“No,” Laurent spat. “But I have to try.”

“I can gather and store power in my body, but not enough for a spell of this magnitude. I need a larger container, and I have already devised such a method. However, since I am cursed and my body rejects certain elements, I need a clean human, free of reactive magical influence, to store power in that container.”

“I’ll do it,” Damen said, maybe too quickly. As if he had any other option. Damen’s empathy had grown within his body at every detail of Laurent’s plight, and it burned like a bonfire in his chest at the thought of refusing.

“I want you to know,” said Damen - softly, carefully, “that I am sorry. I know an apology is wholly inappropriate. And that my words will ring hollow. And that nothing can change what I-” Damen clenched his hands and his nails scratched along the surface of the table, “what I did. The results of my actions. I will not make excuses or explain. But know that I wouldn’t do it again, not even for the glory of Akielos.”

Damen swallowed, “If there is anything I can do to set things right, I will do it.”

Laurent was shaking. His eyes fluttered between cold rage and the precipice of sorrow, all at such rapid pace that it was barely visible.

“If you attempt to murder him again, prince-killer,” Damen saw clear fluid beading at the corner of Laurent’s rosy lips and knew it to be venom flooding his palate. “I will string your entrails from the gates of Acquitart, and I’ll swallow your head whole.”

“I won’t. You have my word, on my honor and my title.”

“Well then, my honorable barbarian, I think we have an accord.”

Laurent stretched out his hand, the gloved one, and Damen clasped it with his own. There was no supernatural burst, no energy transfer, no sign that Laurent had bound him magically to his word, only the fierce beating of Damen’s pulse.

“Now, get out. I’ll expect you here, tomorrow, at midday. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

~~~~

The work on Tarasis started as soon as Nikandros demanded it, and had progressed at a rapid pace. The surviving villagers all agreed to stay at the Akielon camp to aid in the rebuilding instead of moving to a new place. All available soldiers were ordered to work on raising new houses, paving broken cobblestones, and eliminating traces of death from Tarasis. No new raids had occurred since Damen rode into the forest, and Nikandros was both relieved and alarmed by the implications of that fact.

A month after Nikandros reappeared, when he was taking a moment to review the schematics for Tarasis in his quarters, a crow hopped through the tent flap. The bird fluttered to the tabletop and stood on Nik’s diagrams, demanding attention. It held a tightly rolled bit of parchment in its beak, which it dropped on the table.

Nikandros just stared, though his newly found instincts for detecting magical influence were screaming. The crow squawked loudly and then turned to where Nik’s forgotten lunch sat on a plate - it pecked and filched a heel of bread before flying out of the tent flap with its prize and vanishing into the sky.

Nikandros took a deep breath, then tried to delicately unroll the scroll with thick trembling fingers.

_To the Kyros of Delpha, Nikandros, from The Bitch, Master of Acquitart,_

Nikandros choked and forced down his instinct to crush the parchment and throw it into the brazier.

_You have no reason to receive this letter with gratitude, and that I understand. Your experiences at my estate were unpleasant - after I learned of your antagonistic nature, I ensured that they would be. However, Damianos has proven to be of a much more stable character than yourself. I will not elaborate on the details of our arrangement, but he has agreed to help me in a matter of great importance._

_There is a chance that he will be returned to you in no more than six months' time. If he does not return, then he is dead. You and I remain at odds, but Damianos cares much for you, and he would want you to know._

_Remember the bounds of his hexed collar - if you reveal that Damianos lives, he is instantly dead. This would also ruin my plans, and I would be extremely aggravated by that outcome. Take care to not force it._

_P.S. If you wish to send a message to Damianos, you may do so. Write it and fold your message like the diagram below, and then have a child throw it into the forest. The magic will guide it to Acquitart. It must be a child, for children and their actions are protected in my forest, and a message sent by a child will surely find its way. He would be pleased to hear from you._

Below the writing, a neat diagram was illustrated - it reminded Nikandros of the folded paper art that was popular in Vask. The end result looked like an abstract bird, tightly creased in the center with wings on the sides. 

It was useless to try and parse through what the beast meant by his letter, so Nikandros did not even try. He would get more direct information from Damen if he was indeed still alive.

Nikandros scrawled a note, several questions, and a rather personal confession on the nature of brotherhood. It took him four tries to get the message folded accurately so that it matched the beast’s drawing. He tested its loftiness by throwing it across his space, and its wings caught the air and sailed smoothly into the opposite tent wall.

He retrieved the message-bird from the ground and then stepped out of the tent to find Hypatia.

~~~~

This time, Damen did not hesitate at the threshold to the tower - he stepped into the study with purpose, with a fresh sense of motivation. Laurent was already seated at a long table, scratching symbols into an enormous leather-bound tome. He held up a claw when Damen entered to indicate that he should be seated but otherwise continued his writing.

Two goblets were set out with a water pitcher beside them, and Damen filled both cups, taking one for himself and placing one next to Laurent.

The writing paused as Laurent glanced at the goblet, then started again, more quickly.

Damen used his waiting time to peer around the room again. It was just as chaotic, but he kept finding new objects that he had not previously seen. On the south wall by the door, a set of shelves contained neat rows of bottles. Several of the bottles had different colors of flames flaring from their tops - one was bright goldenrod, another was slate grey - a deep green flame extinguished from one bottle and then alighted in the adjacent one. A crimson flame blazed from a bottle on the highest shelf.

Damen turned and found Laurent staring at him, tome closed and set aside, and quill resting in the inkpot.

“They’re wards,” Laurent drawled, “They tell me where the men in my castle are located. I knew you were in Auguste’s room the other night because your flame flared so strongly that it almost caught my shelf on fire.” Laurent traced a claw around the rim of his water goblet and then took a deep swallow.

“Which color am I?” Damen said with wonder.

Laurent leveled him with an imperious gaze, “The red one. At the top. You are in my tower, so your flame burns in the tower bottle.”

Damen looked at the bottles once more before turning back. “I won’t go into his room again, you have my word.”

“No, you won’t. I hexed the doorway. If you value your skin staying attached to your flesh, I would not attempt it.”

“Noted,” Damen said dryly.

Laurent took another sip. Damen was starting to wonder if this action was a cover for the prince’s nerves.

“We are going to discuss Marlas,” Laurent said. Damen gulped from his own cup, feeling the anxiety of the room rise.

“I was just turned thirteen at Marlas, and due to my youth, they sequestered me in a tent at the rear of the army. I did not see my father fall. I saw Auguste’s banner fall,” Laurent’s voice went hard, “but I did not see him fall.”

“You did,” said Laurent.

“Yes,” Damen said, with all the quietude he could muster, “I did.”

“Tell me every detail of your experience. This is not a masochistic whim - I want especially to know of any magic on the field when he fell.” Laurent’s claw tapped beneath the table. “Tell your story, and I will not interrupt.”

And so he did.

Damen told Laurent of Theomedes’s reasoning, of his desire to regain the honor of Delpha for Akielos. He told him about how betrayed the Akielons' had felt at the Veretian breach of parley. Told him of Kastor leading the front lines like a hammer, about the golden flank of the Veretian army, led by Auguste, that would not break. He recalled his worry for an exhausted Kastor, his desire to end the fighting before his brother fell.

Laurent, thankfully, did not comment on the irony of that statement and urged Damen to continue.

“I pleaded with my father to let me ride to the front and duel Prince Auguste. I was nineteen and unseasoned by battle, but I had helped to repair the border villages massacred by the Veretian army in the months leading up to Marlas, and I was eager to take revenge. I was foolish and as bloodthirsty as my father.”

Laurent knit his eyebrows together as if he faced a difficult puzzle.

“I rode to the front with a white banner raised in a sign for a parley. The Veretian army had already violated parley once, so I had concerns that they would ignore the flag. Your brother stopped the fighting mid-field. To this day, I’m not quite sure how he did it.”

“That was just Auguste,” Laurent said, and Damen twinged to hear the sadness in his words.

“He was an incredible figure on the battlefield. I have never fought a stronger man or a man with more sword prowess. He accepted my duel with honor. He wished me good luck even. I’m ashamed to say that I rejected the sentiment.”

Laurent tried to take a drink and found his cup empty, so he refilled it. Hesitantly, he poured water into Damen’s depleted goblet as well.

“He caught my blade in a prise de fer - I have never fought anyone with the same level of precision and strength - and he disarmed me. I waited for his blade to fall on my neck, but it never did. He had disengaged, and he told me to pick my sword up.”

“If the roles had been reversed -” Laurent started.

“At nineteen? I would have pressed the advantage. I would have finished him. Akielon rules of war do not dictate that you should allow your opponent a second chance. Auguste showed the most honor of anyone that day.”

Damen rubbed his forehead where a tension headache was beginning to bloom. “We returned to our duel and Auguste was tired, so it could have been exhaustion, but -” Damen stopped. His memory flared like a torch on a single detail.

“His foot. His left foot. He stepped forward in our exchange and his foot sunk into the mud on the field up to his ankle. He was thrown off balance and he swung his sword wide. He was shocked, I could tell that. I used this to my advantage and I applied a clean horizontal thrust to his abdomen.”

Laurent’s feathers were quivering, but he was otherwise still, so still.

“I had been standing on the same patch of earth that Auguste sank into, just moments before. It hadn’t felt unstable at all, and his boots could not have been that much heavier than my sandals. In fact, we chose that hill to duel on because it was stable terrain. It doesn’t make logical sense that I stayed on my feet, and he sank.”

“What after?” Laurent said with intensity.

“As soon as Auguste hit the ground, our lines exploded, some kind of battle magic. There was fire, and smoke surrounded the Veretian army. Our squires waved juniper censers to try and clear the spells from the field, but by the time the Akielon army could regroup, the Veretians had vanished. The entire field was empty, the army was gone. Vere ceded Delpha through a missive, and Kastor slew the messenger in a rage. I thought it was unfair of Kastor, but I was too proud of myself for winning to do anything about it. That’s all I remember.”

Laurent was quiet as a corpse, boring a hole in the table with the intensity of his gaze. Damen was momentarily concerned that the wood might burst into flame.

“Stand up,” said Laurent suddenly, and he rose as well. “Stand in the circle.”

On the floor of the tower was a large painted circle, lined with runes and glyphs. Damen stood in the center. Laurent signed a complicated hand gesture, and the ground within the circle magically transformed from stone to slightly muddied earth. Just like at Marlas.

“If you can, slowly walk me through Auguste’s strike, when his foot sank.” Laurent handed Damen a carved wooden staff in the place of a sword.

The memory churned in Damen’s mind, and he positioned his feet, slowly shifting forward, raising his staff to strike, and then placed his weight on his left foot. The ground held and Damen’s staff strike came down where he expected it to.

“Again,” Laurent said. 

This time, when Damen put weight on his left foot, Laurent spread his fingers and clenched them in the air. The mud gave beneath Damen’s foot, and he swung out wildly, barely maintaining his balance. He ripped his foot from the mud, and with a wave of Laurent’s hand, the circle turned to stone once more.

Damen stood dumbfounded. Laurent looked like he might retch.

“You think it was magic?” Damen said.

“I know it was,” Laurent said.

“Akielons don’t practice magic.”

“I know,” said Laurent, “Now get out. Try not to track mud across my floor. Arrive at the same time tomorrow.”

Damen returned to his chambers and was met with Ancel, who was wheeling softly back and forth in his bedroom. He was mending Damen’s ripped shirt with precise, if stiff, mannequin fingers.

“You’re welcome,” Ancel said without preamble.

“Thank you. I was going to become smelly with just a single set of clothes.”

“Or you would’ve walked around the castle naked,” Ancel lowered his work with a smirk. “Should I stop?”

“No, please, keep going,” Damen said, and Ancel purred.

“You have a message, by the way. Apparently, it flew right into Arnoul’s mouth. He gave it to Orlant, and Orlant gave it to Lazar, who gave it to me, and now I have hand-delivered it.” Ancel winked salaciously. “That’s why I’m your favorite.”

“A message?” Damen asked frantically. Ancel gestured to the table and Damen grabbed it.

“-D,” the message began, and Damen’s heart soared.

“It's from Nik!” He said excitedly, then grinned brilliantly at Ancel, “You absolutely are my favorite now.”

“Told you so,” Ancel said, with intense smugness.

_-D_

_The beast sent me a letter delivered in a crow’s beak. He said that you lived and you had some sort of arrangement, but didn’t go into details. He said that, if you were still alive, he would release you in six months. What happened? He said that he liked your character? How did you manage that? What is the arrangement and why might you not survive it?_

_The raiders have not returned since you arrived at Acquitart. After seeing the curse of that castle firsthand, I am deeply worried that the beast may have been responsible for the massacre, that this was all an elaborate trap to lure you into his servitude. Forgive me, but I know you, and I know how blindly noble you get in the face of injustice. Remember when you saved that bee from drowning and it stung you? Remember Jokaste?_

_I’m worried, Damen. It almost broke me to say that you were dead. You know that I have no siblings, and you know that I consider you to be my family. Losing you feels like losing a brother and a part of myself and I can’t stand it._

_No word from Ios yet. The bitch gave me a method to consistently send you messages, and I will, often. Write back if you can. Stay alive, or else I’m going to kill you._

_-N_

Damen read the letter through several times, with joy, and then aching homesickness, then confusion. Laurent had told Damen that he would release him, but a six-month timeline was never mentioned. He thought briefly about walking back up to the tower, but their talk of Marlas today had been so intense - it was probably wise to give Laurent some time and space to process.

He was also gutted by the realization that Laurent could have sent the raiders. Damen knew that Laurent had the capacity to cause harm, and he was more than capable of supplying the raiders with shroud magic. The more Damen considered it, the more incensed he became. He would ask Laurent outright tomorrow, and if he was responsible -

Something in Damen told him that Laurent would not engineer a massacre, that it was not in his nature. Laurent was violent like a wounded animal backed into a corner, not violent like the hunting party pursuing the animal. Damen did not want to believe the accusation, despite Nik’s suspicions, despite the fact that Nik was usually (always) right.

He would ask Laurent tomorrow. For the time being, Ancel distracted him with more innuendo and finished Damen’s shirt.

Ancel completed the mending with blood-red thread - Damen held the shirt up and saw beautifully embroidered claw marks across the back. The work was precise and detailed, with blooming red points of thread dotted here and there, and swirling stitches terminating at the lower back. The needlework also did the duty of repairing the slash marks.

“When we break the curse, you should open a dress shop,” Damen said, folding the shirt and putting it in the wardrobe, “you do exquisite work.”

For the first time since they met, Ancel looked morose. “I wanted to, once upon a time. Before I became a pet. Maybe the curse knew. That’s why I’m a dress form.”

“As of today, I am assisting the prince in his efforts to break the curse,” Damen said steadily, “And he will, I know it.” Damen met Ancel’s sad eyes and smiled sweetly. “When it’s broken, I’m going to pay you a lord’s ransom to make me the most Veretian chiton I have ever seen.”

Ancel wheeled forward and kissed Damen’s cheek, then whispered into his ear, “If you keep this attitude up, even that frigid bitch is going to fall for you.”

He left the room, and Damen flopped on the bed with a groan. 

~~~~

The next day, Damen made for the tower, determined to have his questions answered. When he opened the door, Laurent was sitting at his usual spot at the table and staring into a large copper bowl of water. His eyes scanned rapidly back and forth as if taking in all the details of a scene, but Damen could only see the bottom of the bowl.

Damen sat at the table, poured two goblets of water, and waited.

After a few minutes, Laurent slammed the bowl down with enough force for it to slosh, then promptly cursed and tried to dab at the puddling water with his sleeve before it soaked his notes. Damen wiped with his sleeves also, and they managed to save almost all of it.

“Thank you,” Laurent said curtly.

“You’re welcome.”

They stared at one another, and Laurent finally groaned.

“Just ask, Damianos.”

“Nik sent me a letter. He said you sent one first. He said I’m being released in six months but only if I survive. He said you might have caused the massacre at Tarasis to lure me here.” Damen scrunched his brows, “He said you liked my character.”

Laurent looked on acidly, took a sip of his water goblet, and then responded.

“Yes, I sent him a letter. I did not say that I liked your character, whatever that means. I merely stated that you were more agreeable than he was.” 

Damen chuckled at Laurent’s prickly response. A flush had crawled up his neck and onto his cheeks, obscured at first by his scales. But his ivory human skin hid nothing.

“Six months?”

“The time we have until the curse becomes permanent,” Laurent said, “My twenty-first birthday.”

Damen had never thought about how old Laurent was. He was only slightly older now than Damen had been at Marlas, and had already experienced hardship intense enough to break a lesser man. 

“Tarasis?” Damen asked, for the first time allowing some hardness to slip into his tone.

“If you’re asking whether I massacred an entire village to entice you into my claws, the answer is no.” Laurent said, “But I know who did it.”

“You do?” Damen hissed, filling with fury, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked,” Laurent said imperiously. When Damen looked as if he might punch something, Laurent conceded slightly: “Knowing would not save any more lives. Your Akielon army is protecting Tarasis now, and that is the most that can be done.”

“Why?” said Damen, almost pleading, “Why not bring this person to justice? Why not prevent another massacre?”

“Because,” Laurent said, razor-sharp, “This man is more powerful than your warrior’s prowess could possibly account for. He bewitched Auguste, he cast the curse on this castle. He vanished an entire army from the field at Marlas. He is the author of countless other atrocities and he has the blood of thousands on his hands. He equipped those raiders to murder, and they did.” 

“You were lured here, though not by me.” Laurent scoffed at him. “Did you really think that your presence here was a coincidence? The prince-killer, stumbling upon a castle containing two enemy princes who are already supposed to be dead. It’s obvious that you were set up.”

It was all the same man. A plan that stretched almost a decade. A plan that involved the royalty of two nations. Damen thought his chest might burst.

“I want to know, Laurent,” Damen said, so softly that it was barely a breath of whisper. “Please. I can’t just do nothing.”

Laurent’s claw tapped wildly under the table.

“The sorcerer is the Regent of Vere,” Laurent said, “my uncle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next we're going to see some aimeric and more nicaise, stay tuned ♡


	5. Damianos (& Laurent)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damianos (& Laurent) POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a reward for enduring the last exposition chapter, i have prepared a few offerings that i think you will enjoy :) 
> 
> ****TW****  
> Aimeric is in this chapter - no mentions of his abuse, but canon-style mentions of violence and attempted suicide. Take care.  
> I also included a medusa-like story, which does include a mild rape mention, but its blink-and-you'll-miss-it. I want everyone to be safe though, tread lightly.

“The sorcerer is the Regent of Vere,” Laurent said, “my uncle.”

Damen’s ears grew hot and his mouth fell slack at the edges. He felt like he had been drinking for hours and was long past the peak of inebriation, limbs heavy and out of his control, head pounding. He yearned to fall asleep and dream away the past seven years, to then wake up on the morning of Marlas and turn the army around.

Laurent had not blinked, he simply stared with a cool containment - his gaze was like a bucket of icy water thrown in Damen’s face.

“It’s a perfect plan,” said Damen dumbly. Even he could see it now. “Aleron falls, the Regent eliminates the two heirs to the throne during battle. No questions asked.”

Laurent nodded, “Maybe just the two of us. Maybe my father as well.”

“Everyone in Akielos truly thought that you were dead. We didn’t doubt it for a second.”

“Why would you?” Laurent scoffed, “He gave you Delfleur. Akielos won. When does the victor ever question how the loser plays the game?”

“But now he’s sent raiders into Delpha.” Damen felt sick. “How long until he attempts full-out war?”

“Long enough for his trapdoor contingency to open, I imagine. Long enough for you to discover and then kill my brother in his sleep, for me to retaliate in my despair and slaughter you. Long enough for me to kill myself soon after. Long enough for aging Theomedes to die, and for your incompetent bastard brother to be crowned Akielon king. It’s much easier to control the battlefield when you’ve dispatched your enemies beforehand.”

There was nothing left to say. Damen leaned his head into his hands and rested there, trying to get control of his breathing and his blood pressure. “It’s a perfect plan,” Damen said again. His voice was rough and muffled from where his hands pressed into his face.

“No. It isn’t.”

Damen looked upon Laurent with wide eyes and when Laurent leaned across the table, his face was level and breath close. From this distance, Damen could truly see the flawless marble coloration of his skin, the way the scales dotting his cheekbones looked like inset azure jewels, how the color of his eyes mirrored the sea around Isthima on a perfect summer’s day. His lips were pink like sliced grapefruit, and Damen wondered if they would taste the same - sour, bitter, and sweet, in turn.

“It isn’t,” said Laurent, “because of you. Because of your damned honor. He could have never predicted that you would choose to help us.” 

Laurent lifted the claws of one hand, and lightly flicked Damen in the center of his forehead.

“Now get out. If you wish to return a message to your Kyros, leave it with Arnoul before nightfall.”

~~~~

_-N_

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_You’re right about me, as always - he needs help and I’m going to provide it, blind nobility be damned. The beast was not behind the raiders. I was rocked by his reasoning, and I feel violent even thinking about the treachery he endured. If you don’t trust him on this, trust me. Our success with this will help Akielos as well as Vere, and our failure would put both nations in peril._

__

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_I’m sorry to have done this. Part of me feels ashamed, like I have abandoned my people. I believe in the cause here, and I know it to be best, but I am sorry to have left you. I miss you too, brother, thank you for being so strong. Write soon._

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_P.S. The beast adamantly denied enjoying my character. I hope you saved that letter so I may use it against him at a later time._

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__

_-D_

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~~~~

When Damen slipped through the door of the tower the next day, Laurent was not there.

The runes around the magic circle were glowing with a muted yellow light, and the unsettling doll from that night, the one Damen thought might be possessed, was hovering several feet above the ground within the circle. His short porcelain arms were spread wide and he muttered wisps of Veretian. His round doll eyes were thrown wide and unseeing. 

At the sound of the latch clicking on the door, the doll seemed to come back to awareness. He scowled at Damen, and his body descended to the floor until his feet touched the stone with a delicate clink. 

Damen saw him well for the first time - the doll’s hair was a wavy chestnut brown, and he wore a rich circlet of sapphires, almost indigo like the deep ocean. In contrast, the rest of the doll’s attire was sparse. He was clad in what looked like a cream-colored pillowcase with cut circular armholes and had bare feet. Damen recalled the smocks that painters wore, and thought that the doll might have passed for a prodigy art student in Vere, had he been human.

“You distracted me,” said the doll with exposed petulance.

“I’m sorry,” Damen said. He wondered how much provoking it would take before the doll cursed him outright. 

“You said that last time too. If you apologize when you don’t mean it, no one will believe you when you do.” 

Damen just nodded. 

“I’m Nicaise. I hate you.”

“Damen. That’s understandable.”

“Stop trying to win me over. You’re not getting anything from me. I don’t have fuckable holes anymore.”

Damen tripped backward, almost stumbling into Laurent, who had just arrived. Laurent sidestepped the flailing with calm agility and Damen crashed back, wincing, against the door of the tower.

“Try not to destroy my study, clumsy oaf,” Laurent said breezily. Nicaise sniggered. 

There were three goblets today. Laurent poured for himself and Nicaise, and they both sat on Laurent’s usual side of the table. Damen sat across from them without hesitation.

“I can’t believe you trained a barbarian,” Nicaise said out of the side of his mouth. It was Laurent’s turn to snicker.

“It wasn’t all that hard. He’s like a massive puppy.” Laurent lifted the pitcher deliberately and locked eyes with Damen, then filled Damen’s empty cup with a gentle quirk of his lips, so much softer than his usual predatory smile. Damen could not help the look of adoring gratitude that spread across his face, though he tried to hide it by taking a drink.

Nicaise leveled Damen with a look of pure contempt, and Damen briefly wondered if any dollmaker had ever carved such an unnerving face.

“Today, Nicaise is going to show you how to interact with magical energy,” said Laurent, looking like a fat spider with a waiting fly. “I’m going to read a book.”

“Why,” said Nicaise, not really asking. 

“You wanted to practice. Stop complaining and go do it.” Laurent rose and slipped onto a chaise, sprawling his limbs with easy grace and selecting an old leather book from a stack nearby. “Tools are on the counter,” he said, cracking the spine.

Nicaise hopped down and grabbed a wrapped cloth bundle from the counter, then sat tightly cross-legged on one side of the circle. Damen followed and contorted in the same manner on the other side, feeling enormous and inflexible compared to the small doll.

The bundle was unrolled between them, and it contained a variety of items - a clear pointed crystal with polished geometric sides, several sprigs of dried herbs, the familiar silver dagger, and a fork with crooked tines.

“Pick up the quartz and see if your giant hands can even feel anything.” Nicaise pointed his tiny fingers at the crystal.

Damen brushed it with a fingertip, feeling the cool smooth surface, but little else. He lifted it delicately, seated the root of it in his palm, then slowly wrapped his fingers around the ridges.

“Magic is made of energy. Most things have some energy inside.” Nicaise raised his painted eyebrows in condescension. “Well?”

Damen focused on the feeling of the crystal, and strangely, felt it warm up in his hand. The quartz remained clear but a shifting matrix of light, almost imperceptible, glowed beneath the surface.

“Wrong. You’re not feeling what was already there, you're filling it with your own energy. It's out of alignment now, thanks to you.” Nicaise snatched the crystal from Damen and the light receded.

“I can put my energy into objects by just - touching them?”

“Not everything, stupid. Quartz just likes to hold onto anyone’s energy, it’s the easiest to work with. Whore crystal.”

Laurent huffed from behind his book and Damen imagined his controlled features splitting into a helpless grin.

“Here, do it again. Control yourself this time.”

Damen placed the crystal flat in his palm and touched it with only two fingers, trying to find whatever energy was supposedly inside. His awareness locked onto a sensation that was similar to the static he associated with spellwork, but it was gentler, like the foam of a river flowing through a chasm of rock. He felt, infinitesimally, the sensation pool into his fingertips.

“There. You took energy from the crystal. Do you get it?”

Damen nodded, feeling completely out of his depth. Swordplay and combat training required concise but deliberate strokes - the sword could never strike without its wielder’s full intent. Magical energy though, Damen could affect it without deliberately trying. He could easily imagine a spell breaking out of its caster’s control. Especially one requiring large amounts of power. 

“Now touch that one. It’s lavender.” 

Central Delpha had the most beautiful lavender fields, pale purple swaying in the breeze all across the horizon. The dried version was less vivid, but when Damen touched it, he imagined that purple. It was such a gentle and safe sensation, like the feeling of a child’s embrace, like closing the curtains around a bed before a dalliance with a lover. The feeling rippled up Damen’s arms and settled around his shoulders like a cloak.

Afterward, when he looked at the dried lavender, it seemed lifeless and brittle. Nicaise picked it up by the stem and held it aloft. It caught fire spontaneously and was reduced to ash.

“When you take all the power out of something, it dies. Just like people.”

“Even metal?” Damen asked, gazing at the silver dagger. It was difficult to imagine an ore living and dying. From the fog of Damen’s memory, he recalled a Veretian spell at Marlas that had rusted steel blades instantly, leaving soldiers with only the leather-wrapped hilt. 

“Yes. I can’t touch that one or I’d show you. It gets brittle and falls apart. I think Laurent likes that knife anyway.”

“Kind of you to remember,” interjected Laurent. Nicaise sneered at him.

“Do the other herbs now.”

Damen’s hand hovered over the next bundle, and it felt familiar. “This is ragwort,” he said, “People in Akielos wear this around their necks to protect from charms and hexes.” 

Damen poked the bundle and it felt strangely like chainmail enveloping his chest, coming to settle in the hollow of his collarbone. It felt safe, not gentle like the lavender, but sturdy, like an Akielon phalanx.

The identity of the last herb was helpfully offered by Nicaise as evening primrose. 

“Brat,” said Laurent, as Damen tried to feel the power in the herb. He felt the energy collect in his lower legs, but it held no other intense feeling.

“I don’t understand what this one does.” 

“Go sit next to Laurent. He’ll tell you.”

“I can inform him from here, thanks,” Laurent drawled, “Evening primrose repels snakes.”

Nicaise laughed and Damen examined the feeling in his legs. They did feel more protected, minutely, perhaps like wearing leather grieves.

“Now try the dagger.”

Damen held it in his palm, gripped just as it had been against Laurent’s neck. The herbs had been forthright compared to this. The silver felt impossibly dense - tugging on its power was like trying to uproot a tree with his bare hands. In the end, a tiny shard splintered and embedded itself in Damen’s temple, glinting in his mind’s eye like its polished physical counterpart. He felt exhausted from this tiny victory.

“That was pathetic,” Nicaise said.

“It holds onto the energy. It’s like pulling on a locked door,” Damen reasoned.

“Don’t pull it from the hinges,” Laurent said. “I like that knife, remember.”

“Metal is strong, idiot. It takes discipline to move that energy.” The last thing Damianos of Akielos had expected that day was to be told he lacked discipline by a precocious foul-mouthed haunted doll.

Nicaise picked up the metal fork. “This is steel.” His painted brows scrunched and sparks of electricity began to dance between the tines. “Steel is easier, but it's a strong metal, so you have to be stronger.” The electricity subsided, and Nicaise sighed out a breath.

“I like steel,” he said. “It’s not a bitch like silver.” He lowered the fork and then smiled dangerously.

“You can take energy from people too y’know,” Nicaise said. With a savage grin, he lifted the fork and casually drove it into Damen’s thigh.

Damen yelped, then gritted his teeth as Nicaise yanked out the fork. Damen cast a shocked glare at Laurent over his shoulder and caught an amused set of icy eyes peering over the top of the book. A few drops of blood trickled onto the floor, and Nicaise smeared his fingers in them, then drew a rune on the ground in red.

The veins in Damen’s body caught fire, and he writhed. It was as if his blood had begun to flow backward through his heart, like the breath was stripped from his lungs. He tried to clench and hold himself tight but felt his consistency turn to jelly, like the strength was siphoned from his limbs.

“Enough, Nicaise,” Laurent said from behind his book, and the pulling stopped.

Damen sucked in air and stared wildly at the blood-streaked Nicaise, who looked both pleased with himself and sour that he had to stop.

“The fastest way to get power is to take it from another person. It feels good to get so much at once.”

“It felt horrible,” Damen said slowly.

Nicaise scoffed. “It’s not that bad. And it only hurts a lot if you struggle.”

 _If you struggle._ Damen realized that he knew nothing about Nicaise except for his impish nature. The doll usually flitted around the halls of the castle, unseen - the other castle inhabitants only mentioned him after a particularly nasty prank had been played on one of them.

“Has someone done that to you?”

“Fuck off,” said Nicaise, "Stop treating me like a child." He turned to Laurent, “I’m done, and he’s doing the hero-savior stuff again, so I’m leaving.”

“As you wish. Thank you Nicaise.” Laurent closed his book and Nicaise stalked from the room and slammed the door behind him.

Damen stayed sitting in the circle, trying to focus on the fading sensations of energy in his body. They were already barely distinguishable from his pulse or the pull of his muscles. He felt Laurent watching, and rubbed the prick marks that were red against his dark skin.

“That hurt,” Damen said unspecifically.

“The great warrior, Damianos of Akielos, whining about a fork wound,” Laurent said with amusement and tossed Damen a small vial of clear liquid. “Clean it with that.”

“Thanks,” Damen grumbled sarcastically.

“You will feel tired after this lesson, I imagine, so get out of my tower before you fall asleep here. I don’t feel like dragging an ox down the staircase. And see Paschal if you require salve for your grievous injuries.”

~~~~

The lessons with Nicaise and eventually Laurent continued daily. Damen learned to identify the power points of his body, learned to pull energy from various substances, and store that energy in the quartz crystal. He even made some strides with metals and minerals - he reduced the steel fork to lustrous crumbles one day, to Nicaise’s wrath, and his own immense satisfaction.

Winter plunged suddenly over Acquitart one evening, and Damen pestered Ancel until he dug a heavy cloak from the closet.

“I preferred your summer wardrobe,” Ancel pouted when Damen was covered neck to mid-shin with the cloak.

“I thought you said I looked good in anything?”

“Yes, but you look best in nothing.”

Damen laughed, and the two of them joined several of the other men in the parlor, where Lazar had stoked a roaring fire. Orlant stretched in front of the hearth like a giant dog, rumbling with contentment as the flame warmed his stone.

“So,” Orlant said lazily after a lull in the conversation, “Damen, what’s it like fucking a lizard?”

Damen choked on his own throat and the room howled with laughter.

“I’m not fucking him,” Damen said, deliberately crude.

“Orlant, you would piss yourself if the prince got anywhere near your cock,” grinned Jord.

“Fuck you, I’m the smart one here. When I see a snake opening its jaws, my first instinct is not to unlace my trousers.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ancel silkily, “I think it’s easy to forget when his face looks like - that.”

“You’ll forget ‘til he pops out those fangs and bites the tip of your dick.” Orlant huffed in amusement.

“You’re a brave man, Damianos,” said Lazar, patting Damen’s shoulder.

Everyone laughed good-naturedly, and Damen threw up his hands and rolled his eyes. Despite his protestation, found himself amused at the repartee, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and good company.

Without warning, a small figure dislodged from the gloom of the foyer and appeared in the doorway.

“You,” Nicaise pointed at Damen, “He needs you in the tower. Now.”

“Oh fuck off,” Damen muttered as the room burst into laughter and whistles. He followed Nicaise up the grand staircase towards the west wing.

Nicaise was oddly quiet - no caustic barbs, no cursing or sexual implications that he should have been too young to understand, no attempted stabbings. When they finally arrived at the tower staircase, Nicaise crossed his arms.

“The cold came and he wouldn’t stop working, now he’s fucked,” Nicaise said with open frustration. “He’s being an idiot and he won’t listen to me. Go get him. Or don’t, whatever. I’m going to bed.” He turned on his tiny heels and marched deeper into the west wing, leaving Damen alone at the bottom of the stairs.

Damen ascended with concern roiling in his belly. He remembered Laurent’s cold blood from the wolf bite and surmised that he had no inner source of heat. His knock on the tower door was tentative, and he pushed it open, not knowing what to expect from the room beyond. The tower was dim and wreathed in candlelight; a brazier near the bookcases was glowing softly. Even so, the room had a distinct chill. A lump of blankets shifted on the daybed.

“Prince Laurent? It’s Damen.” He walked towards the daybed and pulled aside one of the blankets on top. Laurent had his face buried into a pillow under the nest of blankets. He hissed softly as the cold air hit his body, and recoiled.

“I know it’s you - Nicaise never knocks. Get in or get out.”

“Get in?”

“The blankets. Get in the blankets. Now.”

Damen was stunned, but he sat at the end of the daybed. He lifted the pile of blankets and crammed as close as he could to the wall. It was a tight fit - Damen was large and the daybed was meant for nodding off while reading, not sleeping away the winter.

In a quick movement, Laurent pulled Damen flat on his back, head on the pillow, and then sprawled bodily across his torso. He pulled the covers over them both and tucked his face into the crook of Damen’s neck and shoulder.

Damen thought his pulse must be deafening. Laurent was an icicle though, and gingerly, Damen placed his arms around Laurent’s back.

“Fuck, you’re like a furnace,” Laurent said snuggling in closer. Damen heard a slur lacing his voice, like he had been drinking.

“Did you try to warm up with wine?” Damen said lightly, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, and miserably failing.

“No, I hate to drink. It makes me feel -” Damen thought he felt the tickle of a forked tongue on the skin of his neck, “Out of control. Unbalanced.”

“You were drunk on the night we met.”

“I had to be. I couldn’t deal with you otherwise.”

Damen hummed and changed the subject, feeling that he was treading on dangerous ground.

“Does the cold hurt you?” Damen asked.

“Not pain, just - sluggish. Tired. I am cold-blooded after all,” A soft laugh, another flicker of the tongue, a brush of frigid lips. Damen tightened his embrace slightly, and Laurent sighed.

“You really are warm. Auguste was always warm too. The first winter I was cursed I almost froze to death in my room. On the coldest nights, I used to lay next to Auguste in his bed.” Laurent paused a moment, “Don’t breathe so sadly.”

“Breathe sadly?”

“You’re warmer when you’re happy. A frown doesn’t seem normal on your face. Now you’re smiling.”

“Yes,” Damen smiled. Another flick, a nuzzle from the tip of a cold nose.

“I’m talking too much, I know. I used to be better at holding all of my inclinations at bay. But I’m too cold, and you keep knocking down all of my walls somehow. It’s irritating.”

Damen felt a frigid touch slide around his ankle and realized that Laurent was twining his tail around Damen’s warm leg.

“I used to hate the heat. I’m so pale, you know. One time, Auguste wanted to go riding during midsummer, and I was determined to keep up with him. We were almost home when I overheated and fell off my pony. I was burned red and peeling for an entire month, but Auguste felt so guilty that he brought me shaved ice and honey every night after bedtime. We would sit in bed and talk and I would get him all sticky with my grubby honey hands, but he never cared. He was so good. Like you. I think you two would have been friends.”

Damen’s chest ached and he rubbed his hands softly across Laurent’s back,

“You’re breathing sadly again. Now you tell me a story.”

“Alright. How about an old Akielon myth?”

“Tell me.”

Damen took a deep breath and watched Laurent’s body rise with his chest. He began:

“In the age of gods, there was a beautiful priestess who was dedicated to the goddess of wisdom. She tended the goddess’s temple, offered sacrifices, and stoked the oracle fires. The priestess was kind especially to women and children and to the vulnerable, all of whom the goddess favored.”

“One day, when the priestess was alone in the temple, a rival god breached the grounds and took the priestess against her will on the marble floor. The goddess of wisdom was enraged, and she cursed the rival god to be burned alive for eternity. However, the priestess was ashamed that her body had been used and tried to take her own life. The goddess, in her wisdom, prevented this and transformed the priestess’s beauty. Her flowing hair became a crown of snakes, and her eyes gained the ability to turn men to stone.”

“The priestess, now a gorgon, converted the temple into a shelter for the vulnerable and took them all under her protection. She created a hall of statues, all of wicked men, frozen in fright at her gaze. Ever since the days of gods, Akielons have considered the snake to be a symbol of protection against evil. To know one is to be lucky.”

Laurent laughed against Damen’s neck with cool puffs of air. His breathing was increasingly languid and drawn-out. “Well,” Laurent sighed out, barely lucid, tongue trailing over the words, “do you feel lucky?” Before Damen could respond, Laurent’s breath slipped into the slowed rhythm of sleep. 

“Yes,” Damen said to himself, smiling warmly.

~~~~

_Laurent woke and he felt warm, so warm, like sunning on a river rock. The river rock smelled like cardamom and woodsy musk and rumbled softly in its sleep. When the river rock started rubbing his back softly, Laurent began to suspect that the rock was Damen. And if the rock was Damen, Laurent was going to kill himself._

__

__

_He pulled back quickly and lifted the blankets with him, allowing a blast of cold air into their impromptu tent. It shocked his senses, but since his core was warm from apparently smothering Damen all night, he did not falter._

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_Damen leveled him with those wide brown eyes that were bleary from sleep, friendly with an edge of cautiousness. He thought Laurent was going to bolt. Laurent wanted to bolt._

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_“Something happened,” said Laurent._

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_“Nothing happened,” said Damen, “Nicaise fetched me because you had become too cold, and you pulled me in for body heat.” He gestured to the mass of blankets on the daybed._

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_“Sounds utilitarian,” said Laurent dryly, doing his best to mask his prickling unease. “What else did you do with your body heat?”_

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_“Oh stand down. You were babbling and you told me stories. I told you an Akielon myth.”_

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_“About the gorgon,” said Laurent as the events of the previous night returned in flashes. He felt the flush rising and was unable to stop it. “You never answered my question.”_

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_“I did, but you had already fallen asleep,” Damen smiled with that intoxicating dimple. “If you want to ask again in the daylight, I will answer.”_

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_Laurent flinched and his face burned. He lamented losing the stored heat in his blood to the idiotic response of his heart and blood vessels._

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_“Not likely.” Laurent rose and stoked the brazier, then walked across the room to the hearth. He tossed in some firewood and ignited it with a concentrated blast of fire from his palm._

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_“That would have been useful last night,” said Damen, who had risen from the daybed and was making his way across the stone to the tower door. “But at least now you’ll avoid freezing to death.” Damen moved to open the latch, and the words slipped out of Laurent’s mouth before he could consider stopping them._

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_“Thank you.”_

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_“You’re welcome,” said Damen. “If you need me again, I am yours.”_

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_Laurent’s feathers puffed up, his breath came in an unsteady huff._

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_“Get out before I combust.”_

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_Damen smiled once more and took his leave._

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~~~~

_I am yours._

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Damen wanted to punch himself, not for the first time. He was courting servitude now because Laurent was sweet for an evening. He stroked the collar around his neck - how had he forgotten about it - and for the first time, realized the matrices of power thrumming within its structure. It was like a brand against his throat, the brand of Laurent’s power.

Helplessly, he found that his most adamant objections had been all but silenced.

As Damen descended the stairs in the foyer, Lazar sidled up to him.

“You look,” said Lazar as he slowly scanned Damen’s body, “trussed.” A sly grin played upon his lips. Damen extinguished one of his candles with a pinch between two fingers, and Lazar yelped then laughed. 

“Oh, by the way, mon cher,” said Lazar as he recovered, “Arnoul has a letter for you.” He flicked his arm and the candle flame reignited. “Tell Nik that I miss him.”

“I will,” Damen grinned as he walked to the front door.

Arnoul held the parchment in his mouth and spat it into Damen’s hand before shooing him back inside and promptly slamming shut.

After retreating to his bedroom, Damen unfolded the letter.

_-D_

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_1\. Tarasis looks like a town again. The streets are filled mostly with soldiers right now, but someday it will be as vibrant as it once was. I am proud of the work we have done, and I know you will be too, once that damned snake lets you out._

__

__

_2\. Strange tidings from Ios. No one responded to the original missive about your death. I sent a second, and nothing. Suspecting foul play on the road, I sent another with a guard, but that was only a week ago. I did, however, receive word from Makedon - your father has come down with a seasonal illness, a flu of some sort. Nothing serious, he said, but I wouldn’t keep that from you. As far as I heard, Kastor is well, and the other reptile we know is progressing with her pregnancy._

__

__

_3\. Something is off, Damianos. I use your full name so you know I’m serious. In your last letter, you seemed to suggest that your task at Acquitart would affect the fates of Akielos as well as Vere. I doubted that, at first, but there are rumblings among the Kyroi, and our spies to the north have reported larger than average troop movements across the border. I suspect that, if there is indeed imminent unrest, you and that beast know of it. If you are able, tell me. I do not want Akielos to be caught unawares. If it’s nothing, you can mock my paranoia later._

__

__

_4\. The crow that delivered your letter shat on my arm. I can’t be sure that the beast trained it to do that, but I also know that he did._

__

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_-N_

__

__

Laurent was right. The Regent was moving troops for war. Damen grabbed his quill and turned the letter over to its blank side.

_-N_

__

__

_The most I can tell you is this: the Regent of Vere is a monster. The beast thinks he will attempt war, but indirectly at first. Know that I am determined to stay alive, and keep the beast alive, to prevent this. I can’t say more - I am sorry my friend. If you hear of any attempt at Veretian diplomacy on behalf of the Regent, do not trust it. I hope my father is well enough to lock the door if Vere comes knocking. At least Kastor has no love for Veretians, so he may advise father against the Regent in my stead._

__

__

_I’m overjoyed to hear that Tarasis is progressing so well and I am always proud of your leadership, but I look forward to telling you in person. I miss your counsel - this place is so twisted, and I miss the straightforward honesty of you, and Akielos. Write if you learn anything more about my father._

__

__

_P.S. Lazar says to tell you hello._

__

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_P.P.S. I am positive that he trained that bird. Like you, I have no proof, but I know._

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_-D_

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That night, Damen dreamt that his father died. He saw Theomedes’s sunken face, saw blood drip from his thin lips, saw him crumple to a heap on the floor. Dream Damianos ran to him and tried to hold him, but clutched only the blood-red fabric of his father’s cloak before the floor fell away, before Damen woke with a shout in the pale dawn.

~~~~

Sessions in the tower became more focused as the months of winter dozed on outside. Laurent had explained that breaking a curse was like finding a cure for a plague - identify the elements of the curse, then what affects those elements, and plan keys of energy to counter and break the system open. Laurent did not inform Damen of the specifics and mostly used him for the labor of extracting and storing energy. 

The vessel that Laurent chose for the countercurse was the giant tome that Damen had seen him writing in on several occasions. It was well organized - the power was stored in glyphs that Laurent had painstakingly drawn, some so intricate that Damen had to squint to see all the details. He found that the more difficult the substance was to extract, the more convoluted the glyph. There was an order to it, but Damen could not acertain it. Sometimes glyphs of like substances were grouped; sometimes opposite types were set against one another. The tome was a physical personification of Laurent’s mind, ordered and chaotic, impossibly intricate, and wrapped in tight binding.

Laurent often worked on another project. Increasingly, the uncomfortable static feeling of Laurent’s intense spellwork would invade Damen’s senses. He wondered whether he was simply more sensitive to magic now, or if Laurent was working more acutely, more often.

One cold afternoon, when Damen was trying to direct the energy of copper into a winding series of glyph lines, Jord pushed the door to the tower open. His pell arm attachments cradled a bundle wrapped in roughly woven cloth.

“They delivered it, your highness. They were satisfied with the payment.”

Laurent shoved several books to the floor to create space on the table, and Jord placed the bundle carefully. He bowed and backed out of the room.

“Ask,” Laurent said, eyes intensely locked on the bundle. 

He ran a claw under the twine that bound the parcel and split the fibers in two. The fabric fell away to reveal a black skull. It looked humanoid, though the proportions were off slightly, heavier in the brow and the jaw. It was ancient, so old as to be petrified. Laurent gazed at it with an unreadable expression.

He touched the crown of the skull gingerly and inhaled sharply. Even from across the room, Damen could feel the power shifting.

“Is it human?” Damen asked.

“It was, once,” said Laurent breathlessly, then swallowed. “Go and tell Orlant to fetch Aimeric - have him brought to the tower.”

Orlant did not want to collect Aimeric. Damen did not know who Aimeric was, but Orlant’s face was crunched into a mask of pure hatred. 

“If the prince tries to involve Jord,” said Orlant, “Stop him. Hit him, fuck him, do whatever. He almost broke Jord last time. Once is enough.” 

Filled with unease, Damen went back to the tower to wait with Laurent. The prince was pacing - his tail slid across the stone and whipped objects across the room when Laurent turned on his heels.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Damen said, voice even.

Laurent paused, serious and considering. “Testing a proof of concept.”

“Which concept?”

Laurent ignored him. “If this fails, my barrel of contingencies will be running very low.”

“May I?” Damen asked, hands hovering over the skull.

Laurent’s eyes narrowed and he paused in his pacing. “If you muddle the energy within it, I will collect your flesh for soup.”

“Delicious,” Damen muttered and touched a single finger to the smooth black bone. 

It was vast. It grew around Damen’s consciousness, dwarfing him like a man does a minnow. It was a trench in the ocean, the infinite black expanse between pricks of starlight. He knew somehow that human energy lingered, but it was mixed with elements that felt like stone, like minerals honed by thousands of years. It was the most complex energy that Damen had ever felt, and he removed his hand before he drowned in it.

“What’s it for?” Damen asked softly.

“You’ll see.”

The door to the tower slammed into the wall, and Orlant trudged in with a man slung over his shoulder.

“Put him in the circle.”

Orlant glowered and placed the man on the stone floor, face-up, before leaving the tower with another slam.

The man looked the same as Damen had first seen him, months and months ago, in the prison tower, in the cell beside Nikandros. It was the noble, bewitched in sleep. His fine-boned wrists looked like they had never lifted anything heavier than a goblet of wine, and his auburn hair framed his face on either side in gentle sweeps. His face was relaxed in an ethereal way, the sublimity of someone whose consciousness is wrapped up in mellisonant dreams, far away from the clamor of the waking world.

Laurent was ripping ingredients from the shelves and tables, tugging bundles of herbs from the ceiling. He placed them in a wooden mortar and ground them viciously together with a stone pestle. His eyes were wild, but his movements contained, like a leopard fixed on its prey. The wet mixture was soon emulsified to a satin sheen.

“Bring the skull and get into the circle,” said Laurent, as he lowered to his knees beside Aimeric with the fresh poultice. Damen lifted the bone carefully and went to the circle.

Laurent first took a deep breath, and Damen felt his power latch into the skull, like imaginary fingers reaching into the eye and nose sockets, caressing the jaw. He smeared his claws with the mixture he had just concocted, then drew a complex symbol on Aimeric’s pale forehead, lightly as if he used a quill and ink. With a low growl, he muttered indecipherable words that even Damen’s ear for language could not parse. He thought of the long-dead language of the Artesian Empire and wondered if Laurent knew it.

Suddenly, Aimeric’s eyes flew wide open, and he gasped, heaving. The peace in his face during sleep had twisted to agony. Damen noticed with alarm that the stone beneath Aimeric’s arms was rapidly pooling with blood.

“Hello Aimeric,” said Laurent. Aimeric screamed. Laurent grabbed the noble’s hands and flipped them palms upward, and Damen flinched at the gaping slash wounds on both of his wrists, rough sided as if they had been inflicted with a glass or pottery shard, not clean like the cut of a blade. Mortal wounds. Likely self-inflicted.

“Did you really think I was going to let you slip away -” Laurent placed both of his palms on the open wounds, causing Aimeric to writhe. “When you still have something that I need?” To Damen, Laurent said, “Hold him down.”

Damen pressed Aimeric’s shoulders to the stone and felt Laurent’s magic swirl like a tempest. On the night the beast had healed him, the night Damen discovered Auguste, Damen’s senses had been clouded by pain and confusion, but he remembered the healing as cathartic. It had felt like relief.

Laurent was certainly healing Aimeric’s wounds, but it was a violent act. He squeezed until Aimeric’s arms turned white, and dark blood oozed through his scaly fingers. The energy from the skull was suffocating in the circle as Laurent tugged on its power and it spilled out, filling Damen’s skin with such static that he wanted to scream alongside Aimeric.

When Laurent let go, it was like a severing. The energy rushed back into the skull, and Laurent sat back on his hands, panting. Aimeric was alive, and his eyes moved wildly between Laurent and his wrists, now whole and unblemished.

“You saved him,” Damen said, wonder and admiration filling his voice. Aimeric started to sob, and Damen put a hand under his back gently and inclined him to a sitting position. “You’re alright now,” he said softly to Aimeric, like a man trying to calm a rabbit.

“You did it.” Damen’s smile was brilliant when he looked upon Laurent. 

Brilliant, up until the moment that Laurent pulled the silver dagger, smoking faintly, from his jacket pocket, and slit Aimeric’s throat.

Aimeric’s screams turned to gurgles as Laurent surged forward through the blood spray. He pressed his claws against the wound, and all Damen could do was grit his teeth against the spell, the feeling that he was being eaten alive by ants, the horror of Laurent’s actions grating against his spine.

Laurent fell back when Aimeric was sealed again. He threw his head back and laughed, low and emotionless. 

"You're right. I did it."

Damen wondered when he had fallen so out of sync with Laurent - at what point had the prince faded to the background, had the beast flared in his violent sadism? Aimeric wailed, trying fruitlessly to wrench his body from Damen’s arms.

“Where should I stick you next?” said Laurent, deep and dangerous. Damen had gazed upon his human face for so long that it shocked him when scales rippled across those plump lips, when his nose grew flat, when his eyes returned to feral slits, when he became wholly the beast once more.

“Laurent,” said Damen.

“Oh, the barbarian slave has a suggestion. Please tell us.” Aimeric trembled in Damen’s grasp, breath rattling.

“You can’t do this,” Damen said, pleading. “Whatever this man has done, it can’t be worth this.”

“And what do you know of worth?” Laurent picked up the dagger again, eyes empty as glass, and shoved it into Aimeric’s abdomen, a direct mirror of the place where Damen stabbed Auguste. 

“Please,” gurgled Aimeric, speaking to no one, to everyone, to the gods, if they indeed listened. “Just kill me.”

“Oh, in due time.” Laurent shoved his hands to the wound once more and closed it. This time he fell back ragged, limbs shaking from the exertion. Even Damen could tell that he was out of power, that he would not be able to go again without recovering himself, even with the vast power in the mysterious skull.

“Until then, you’re my new favorite toy. How many times must I cut you, do you think, before it starts to feel good? Before you start to ache for it?” Laurent’s tone could have ripped a man’s heart out. “That’s what my uncle wanted, isn’t it? Why he sent you? You were never to be anything but a hole or two. But I prefer to make my own holes.”

Laurent raised the dagger again, and Aimeric choked. In a movement quickened by years of sword training, Damen grabbed Laurent’s wrist as the blade came down, and stopped it, quivering, just above Aimeric’s heart.

“You have to stop,” said Damen. Laurent almost killed him for that, if his eyes were any indication. Damen continued, voice unyielding, “Your uncle turned your body into a monster, and he is trying to do the same to your mind. Torturing this man will only bring you farther from your humanity, and you know it.” He dared not look away from Laurent. The dagger had begun to sizzle in Laurent’s hand.

After what felt like a lifetime, Laurent pulled his wrist from Damen’s grip. He threw the knife across the room and embedded it into an armchair, where it rocked slightly back and forth. Aimeric’s breath came quickly and unnaturally, his eyes were saucers as he glanced between the two men.

Laurent left the circle, putting distance between them, and leaned against a wooden table, back straight, head down and hood spread wide, neck bobbing with agitation.

“You’re saying that my uncle makes me sloppy. That, when I lose control, I make mistakes.”

“Yes, those things. But also,” said Damen softly, “he makes you lose yourself. And even if you don’t care about losing you, the men in this castle care about losing you. I care about losing you.”

Laurent froze. Then, with blinding speed, he gripped the table and unturned it, sending glass and parchment everywhere, scattering piles of herbs and reams of notes.

“If you do indeed value life, prince-killer,” Laurent seethed, like poison simmering on a burner, “Get out. Take that piece of meat to his cell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are over the half-way mark!! thanks for tagging along with me, I appreciate everyone so much ♡


	6. Damianos & Nikandros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damianos & Nikandros POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took me a while, and I think you will see why when you read it - we cover a lot of ground, and its extra long. i tweaked it to smithereens and its still not perfect, but i think you'll like it anyway :) 
> 
> ****TW****  
> Mentions of Aimeric and suicidal thoughts, also mentions of wounds and blood, so be careful. If you made it through the last chapter, you'll be just fine.  
> Also, never handle liquid mercury the way Damen does - IRL that stuff is very toxic - don't try this at home yall

Damen stalked to the training grounds, still covered in Aimeric’s blood. He needed to wash, but felt too tightly coiled, like he would turn the bathwater to steam if he tried. He longed to fight against someone who could fight back and to exert his muscles until they roared. 

It was no surprise that Jord was already there, sword singing through the air with precise movements. His leather pell body was covered in nicks and rough striations from various sparring encounters, and crisscrossing leather patches were sewn across his torso. Under the brightness from the glass skylight, the stitches looked like a vast network of scars. When Jord noticed Damen approaching, he lowered his sword, letting the tip trail in the sawdust.

“I wish this body could sit down,” Jord said wearily. 

Damen considered this for a moment, then dropped like a stone onto his back in the sawdust. The scratchy sensation of wood chips against his skin was soothing and familiar - Damen recalled several wrestling matches and practice bouts where Nikandros had thrown him to the ground. Jord snorted at Damen's behavior and tossed his sword to the side, then rocked on his base and fell back, landing with a muffled thud. Both men laid on the ground, staring at the forest canopy through the skylight. Damen crossed his arms under his head and felt the furious tension begin to ebb away.

“How was he?” asked Jord.

“He’s alive,” said Damen, “The prince healed his wounds.” His tone added an unspoken, monstrous, _however._

“What else?”

“Orlant is guarding his cell. He won’t be able to hurt himself again. The prince tortured him.”

Jord sighed in resignation. “I thought he might.”

The room was silent, except for Damen’s deep breathing and the distant noises outside the castle walls.

“I don’t understand what happened or why,” Damen said, trying to bottle his frustrations because Jord did not deserve them. “But I’m covered in his blood, and I wish I had an explanation.” Softer, Damen added, “It shouldn’t be you explaining though, I recognize that.”

Jord hummed and Damen closed his eyes.

“Aimeric wandered into the castle just over a year ago, lost like you and Nik. Said he ran away from an abusive home. The prince was cold to him, but that’s not exactly unusual. He gave him a room anyway. We were told to watch him at all times, and I - I don’t know, I just grew to like him. He was sweet and educated, naive but determined. A fourth or fifth son of some noble family that never cared for him.” 

“We -” Jord trailed off for several seconds, “talked. About the future. One where the curse was broken. And I trusted him. I allowed the men that were guarding him to grow lax in their duties and one day - he was found trying to smother Prince Auguste. In his belongings, we also uncovered enough poison to kill the princes several times over.” 

Jord added, as an afterthought, “I hope that helps to understand the context of your imprisonment.”

“It does,” said Damen, mind churning. _Using the vulnerable as pawns._ Damen thought the perpetrator might as well have signed his handiwork. “The Regent sent an assassin disguised as a victim of abuse. Sick piece of shit.”

Jord rustled on the sawdust, and when he next spoke, it was adamant: “Aimeric _is_ a victim of abuse. I heard all of it, and I know it was real. He’s not that good of a liar, not like the prince.” Damen heard his head lift then thunk against the ground. 

“In the end though, Aimeric chose the wrong allegiance.”

“Orlant hates him,” said Damen. “He told me to keep Laurent and Aimeric away from you.”

“Orlant is a great friend,” The sound of creaking leather, and Damen imagined Jord giving one of his half-smiles. “I was blamed for my fraternization with Aimeric. The prince - made examples of us. Aimeric sliced his wrists, I could not. The prince put him to sleep to keep him from dying. Not as a kindness. That’s all really.”

Damen knew that was not all, but Jord deserved more than to have to relive it. “Thank you for the information. For what it's worth, I probably would have done the same in your position.”

“You already are. You let the pretty cursed prince out of your sight for a second and now the beast is torturing men. Help me up.”

Damen rolled to his side and rose to his feet, then clutched Jord’s arm attachment and lifted him to stand squarely on his base. He brushed the sawdust from Jord’s back, then mostly from his own. His desire to pick up a sword and hack was gone. Damen felt the crusted blood on himself and decided that he wanted to be free of it after all.

~~~~

Laurent did not show himself after the incident with Aimeric - no slinking through the halls in the frosty dregs of the night, no haughty appearances in the tower. Damen kept to his schedule and continued to fill the countercurse tome with different energies, often working until his focus felt like raw clay. At this point, he hardly needed direction for energy work, but it felt obtrusive being in Laurent’s private space without him. The circle had been cleaned of blood, its stone scrubbed clean before the next day, but the space still felt tainted to Damen’s memory. He regarded it like scorched earth and avoided walking through its bounds.

Nicaise still popped in and out of the tower at the whims of his demented brain. He used the study and the circle freely to practice his own magic, but the two had an unspoken agreement: Nicaise would only throw objects at Damen when he was not occupied with the tome. His contrary and prickly nature was a beacon of normalcy after what happened, and he was also more than happy to gossip about (tattle on) Laurent.

According to Nicaise, Laurent had slept for three full days after the incident with Aimeric and was now brooding full-time in the library. Damen might have once felt a fondness for Laurent’s behavior, maybe even empathy for the discomfort he must be experiencing, but now he felt cold in the wake of Laurent’s actions. In Damen’s mind, the honorable thing would be to show his face in the tower, to take responsibility for his barbarous behavior, not to sulk in a part of the castle that Damen had never even seen.

“He wants to see you,” said Nicaise as he slammed through the tower door one late afternoon. 

Damen held a small pool of mercury in his palm and was trying to move its energy into a glyph without breathing in the toxic quicksilver fumes. At the loud slam of the door, Damen flinched and muttered an Akielon curse - a few droplets of mercury slid from his palm onto the tabletop, where they twinkled like stars against the dark wood surface. He poured the remainder from his hand into a glass jar with a stopper, then used a stiff piece of parchment to nudge the scattered drops into the jar as well. Nicaise tapped his foot with impatient clicks and looked about ready to burst by the time Damen turned around.

“He’s still in the library. It’s the room across from his brother’s room.”

Damen crossed his arms. After weeks of silence, he was being summoned by proxy, to unknown territory. If this had been a battle, Damen would have laughed at the messenger, and told him to return the terms of this obvious trap. In this situation, it seemed like more evidence of Laurent’s inability to admit fault, of an unbecoming petulance more suited for Nicaise. 

Sensing his resistance, and likely seeing it etched on his face, Nicaise scowled. “I’m sick of this shit. Both of you treat me like a child, and you’re the ones being fucking childish.” Nicaise jabbed his pointy index finger towards Damen, “Deal with this so we can deal with the curse.”

It wounded Damen’s pride more than he wanted to admit, but Nicaise was right. If Laurent was indeed asking for a parley, it would be beneath Damen to refuse, dishonorable, childish even. His righteous indignation suddenly felt a lot less righteous. 

“Fine,” he grunted after a few seconds. Damen left the tower and closed the door harder than strictly necessary. Nicaise’s frustrated scream from the other side was muffled as Damen descended the staircase.

He made for the wide rotunda that connected the major spokes of the west wing, like the hub of a wheel. The threshold to Auguste’s chambers practically sizzled with a hex across the doorway, just as Laurent had warned. It was a nasty sensation, even from afar, that burned against Damen’s power. He skirted to the opposite side of the room quickly. A grand set of doors on this side were made of rich dark wood and carved with an intricate tableau of leaping stags and wild horses, highlighted by gold leaf and matching gold metal fixtures. 

Damen took a breath, pressed the spiraling handles, and threw the doors wide open.

His feet managed three steps inside before his brain stopped processing motion. The library was by far the most beautiful room in the castle, and it stunned him into staring. The golden accents here were molded ribbons of pure light, a glittering weightless schema akin to the energy pattern in some of Laurent’s more complex glyphs. They flocked vast expanses of shelves containing multicolored books, thousands of books, books three stories high, books at the end of narrow ladders that rolled on castors along endless rows of even more books. 

A wooden spiral staircase, carpeted in a deep navy blue, was the dominating feature at the center of the room. In the hollow middle of the staircase, a long brass pole extended from the floor into the distant ceiling. Two catwalks connected to the staircase and demarcated separate stories with running balconies on either side - the intricate carved railings and moldings, in dark wood and gold, looked like frosting on a cake where they nestled amongst the bookcases. 

Where Laurent’s tower was quixotic, this room was immaculately ordered and treated with reverence: the armchairs and chaises were dust-free and lacking holes from claws and thrown knives, no stacks of books lingered on the tables, and the floor was free from scraps of notes, broken stems of herbs, and blood.

It was easy to understand why Laurent would want to hide in here - Damen could almost picture a younger and more happy Laurent racing along the bookshelves and the upper stories, squealing with delight as Auguste pushed him on a ladder, and tearing through the vast collections of stories.

“Damianos?” Came a small voice from high above him. Damen squinted and saw a shadow moving on the highest catwalk.

“You summoned me,” Damen said, deadpan. His deep voice rumbled and echoed against the high arched ceilings.

“Just a moment.” Laurent darted to the center of the staircase and gripped the brass pole, then slid down three stories in an eye blink. Despite his mood, Damen pictured the younger version of Laurent running up the stairs over and over, only to slide down again. 

Present-day Laurent lacked this joviality - he barely looked at Damen, just gestured for him to follow.

His clothes looked especially austere today: the black jacket was embroidered with black thread, a headache for any seamstress, and his collar was tied high across the scales of his throat with metallic silver lacing. Laurent’s dark silhouette led Damen through a maze of shelves, but even with this limited view, Damen was amazed at the variety before him. As expected, large sections of shelves housed books written in Veretian and Kemptian, many of them magical tomes - he spied a few shelves of books on Vaskian art and wondered if Laurent had poured over them to hone his illustration skills. To Damen’s delight, there was even a shelf of Patran and Akielon children’s stories, just as well-kept as everything else in the library. 

Laurent led them to a reading nook near the back of the library - it was bracketed by twin hearths of pink stone, both carved with fleur-de-lis that glowed in the sunset heat of the firelight. The space was bright and cozy, even without natural light, a perfect place to read deep into the night.

Laurent paused near a fireplace, then whipped around to face Damen, tail tracing the ground. He cleared his throat.

“Hello,” said Laurent awkwardly.

“Hello,” said Damen, crossing his arms.

Laurent’s claw tapped the ground rapidly, one of his more obvious tells, and Damen knew he was uncomfortable. He thought perhaps that Laurent should be uncomfortable for a change.

“I have thought about what you said,'' started Laurent, voice steady and purposefully inflectionless, “And I want to apologize. For the other day.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” said Damen, tensing his muscles in agitation, “Apologize to Aimeric. You tortured him for fun. ”

Laurent stared at Damen’s flexed arms for a moment, then flinched and looked back up. “Not just for fun,” he said contrarily, then sighed, “but I don’t deny that my motivations were driven by satisfaction.”

He stepped closer to Damen, clawed footfalls mute against the plush carpet, until they were within arms reach. The dark patches under Laurent’s eyes were clearly visible against his pale skin, and they shifted in the firelight like restless spirits. Damen wondered if he had slept at all after his initial wave of magical exhaustion.

“I want to discuss another arrangement with you. I hope you will agree to it. But first, I need to terminate a prior arrangement.” 

Laurent lifted his hands and placed them high on Damen’s shoulders. This close, he had to look up into Damen’s wide brown eyes that never masked anything, certainly not the surprise he felt at being touched. Laurent’s scaly flesh was cold as usual, and the claws that once ripped his back apart now inched close to his throat with unexpected delicacy.

Laurent grasped the collar around Damen’s neck and activated the power matrices within it. The signature traces of Laurent’s spellwork faded from the metal, and the collar fell away from Damen’s neck in two halves, still blood-warm. Laurent pulled back and held the pieces for a pensive moment, then tossed them into the flames of the hearth. Damen’s brown skin felt coated in gold where Laurent had touched him.

“Your enslavement is nullified. You may leave whenever you wish,” Laurent said. Damen noticed that his hands were trembling. “You owe me nothing but scorn for how I treated you - a rival prince who will soon be a rival king. I will not expect you to stay, or to support my endeavors. But before you go, I ask that you listen to my request.” Laurent bowed his head, more pleading than Damen had ever seen him.

“I made a promise to help you,” said Damen. “I will not break my promise.”

The noise that came from Laurent was between a sputter and a hiss, and Damen noted with amusement that his forked tongue flicked out several times, as if trying to taste the direction the conversation was headed.

“Why?” Laurent asked.

“Because I’m angrier at the Regent than I am at you. I’m furious that you had no one to help you until now. And I won’t forgive myself if I leave when I would rather stay, just to prove a point of principle.”

Laurent turned his head in profile and stared into the fire. “Are you disappointed?” he asked, in a tiny voice, “That I ended up being this?” 

Damen had never seen Laurent display such an intense look of self-loathing. If he was fully a snake, he would have been a tight ball on the floor, head tucked deep into his coils.

“No,” said Damen, softly. “You misunderstand. I know what you felt like.” His limbs suddenly felt twice as heavy, so he turned to sprawl across a nearby fluffy chaise. After a beat, Laurent collapsed in the armchair next to him. For once, his tension seemed to grow slack, as if he was too exhausted to remain tightly wound.

“Believe me, I understand the rush of righteous violence. On the battlefield, blood is as sweet as summer wine - it tastes like victory.” Damen exhaled and closed his eyes. “I am the greatest warrior in Akielos because I love it. I love subduing my opponent, sometimes in friendly sports or spars, sometimes in a slaughter, in battle. War is my preferred arena.”

His memory flashed Marlas, a roll of indeterminate and faceless enemies, the smell of copper and bile. The golden prince, covered in blood, falling to the ground. Arrogant pride swelling beneath his Akielon armor. It all felt tilted now.

Damen opened his eyes and Laurent looked so sad, so weary of the world, as if the sun had been absent from his life for years. His expression asked Damen: _‘Did you love killing Auguste?’_

Damen said, “Yes.” Slowly, he brushed his hand over Laurent’s scaly fingers where they rested on the arm of the chair. They were cold beneath his touch. 

“Nikandros mocks me for my honor at times, but that honor is the thing that keeps me human. I’m not naive enough to believe that we can completely avoid fighting, or death. But if we must cause harm, it has to be for something righteous. For ourselves and our people, not for glory, or greed, or revenge.”

Laurent flipped his hand under Damen’s and they clasped their palms, fingers not intertwined but nestled together, growing warm.

“We both have to try. Aiding you will help me regain the humanity I lost at Marlas when I killed for glory. You will regain your humanity by breaking this curse and reviving your brother. Then, we will both reclaim our sovereign nations from the poison of the Regent.” Damen sat up a little straighter and bent forward in a mock bow.

“Those are my terms, your highness. Do you accept them?”

“Yes,” Laurent said, with a strange and wondrous expression. Damen squeezed his hand, and a flush rose to his pale cheeks. For the first time, he did not seem embarrassed by it.

“Right. I did want to ask you something,” Laurent squeezed back, “But you were being so blindingly noble and kingly that I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Damen smiled and chuckled lightly. “Ask.”

Laurent huffed, “Is it possible to send Aimeric to Akielos? To Tarasis if the town is operational? He needs to be guarded, away from Vere, because he is an asset to my uncle. But I will not keep him here any longer if I have another choice. It’s best for all of us, including him.”

“That sounds,” said Damen, surprised, “like a great idea, actually. I can send a message to Nik right away.” A little more somberly, he added, “The camp also has plenty of physicians, some of whom specialize in psychological wounds. He will be kept safe on all fronts.” 

“I would appreciate it,” Laurent said, “You may also tell Nikandros of your freedom if you wish. I would prefer if only Nikandros knew for now - the longer my uncle believes you dead, the better - but I won’t interfere if you wish to inform your other countrymen. Also, if Nikandros tries to storm Acquitart and retrieve you, I don’t feel that it would be fair to stop him.”

“I’ll tell him to stall the invasion until after your birthday.”

“A magnificent present,” said Laurent wryly. He glanced at their clasped hands, then away, into the fire. “You know, I had an entire script written in my head before you walked in. But you said your lines out of order and now I’m dashing to keep up.”

“You didn’t plan for me to stay?” asked Damen teasingly.

“No, I planned on having to convince you to stay. I had an immaculate grovel prepared. But you keep upturning all my plans.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing that sometime in the future.” said Damen with a smirk, “But for now, I guess I’m just easy.”

“No, you aren’t,” said Laurent with a shy smile tugging the corner of his lips, “You are the most complex man I have ever met, and every time I feel that my model for predicting you is complete, you throw me an outlier that requires the dissolution of the entire system.”

“That’s an awfully complicated way of saying that you get pissed off when I do the decent thing.”

“I find myself less pissed about it the more I come to know you.” Laurent’s eyes sparkled with mischief in the firelight. He rose suddenly, hand still clasped in Damen’s. “Do you want to see the library?” He looked down with a bizarre curiosity, as if, for once, he was not sure what would happen next.

“Of course I do, this place is -” Damen looked around wildly, hoping the gesture encapsulated his wonder.

Laurent smiled, a real smile, like blooming spring peach blossoms, and Damen thought his heart might just burst. He tugged on their joined hands and murmured, “Follow me.” 

~~~~

_-D_

_Berenger is ready to escort the Veretian. After sunset, he will meet your man at five hundred paces north past the treeline. I’m skeptical of this plan - I don’t like the idea of Berenger going in alone, but I trust you. He was strangely understanding of the situation, even though I haven’t told him anything. He obviously knows something, but I didn’t press him._

_You were right to assume that I would send the army in after you. I’ll acquiesce to your wishes and hold, but hurry, this whole deception makes me uneasy. Still, no word from Ios, though I know my messengers arrived. I will update you as I know more. Word of your survival will be kept close to my chest until you return. Be well brother._

_-N_

Nikandros paced outside his tent, watching the moon rise. The majority of the army had relocated inside the walls of Tarasis, along with the civilians, but a small scouting camp was erected on the north side of the town. Movement from the forest would be immediately visible from the camp’s placement, as would any riders from the mountain roads. Nikandros felt a small bubble of panic forming as he contemplated Berenger getting lost in the woods, but he quashed it forcefully - Berenger was prepared, carrying magic warding herbs and a lodestone for discerning direction, even at night in a dense forest.

An hour after Berenger’s tall form disappeared into the treeline, he reappeared with a waifish man at his side. The scouting horns blew in a brash burst, and the skinny Veretian man appeared to jump and glance around wildly. Berenger put a hand on his shoulder and spoke, and the two proceeded towards the camp.

Nikandros dug his sandals into the earth and strode quickly across the field towards them. He was naturally large and imposing, so he tried to minimize his footfalls as he approached, not wanting to scare the skittish man. 

They met mid-field, and Nikandros bowed, then spoke in his overly-formal Veretian: “Hello, I am Nikandros, Kyros of Delpha. It is our honor to have you in Akielos. What may we call you?”

“Amille,” said the young man after a pause, tripping slightly over the pronunciation, as if he was unused to it.

Berenger was doing his best to hide it, but he looked disconcerted, vaguely ill. He bowed to Nikandros. “Amille has been through much recently, and I would like to get him settled as quickly as possible.”

Nikandros nodded, “Then let us make for Tarasis.”

The three men walked down the beaten path through the scrubland towards the town walls. Nikandros used his soldier’s training and reconnaissance skills to surreptitiously take stock of Amille. According to Damen, he was the man that had been imprisoned next to Nikandros in the castle jail. He looked familiar in the vaguest sense, like perhaps Nikandros had once passed him in a market. His auburn hair looked hastily combed-through, and he wore a simple navy shirt and brown trousers, trappings of a working-class Veretian - his faint musculature did not look accustomed to work, however.

Nikandros winced when he noticed a straight scar, pale in the moonlight, that stretched across his throat. There was nothing besides torture or near-death that could cause a scar like that.

They guided Amille to a small wooden house on the residential side of Tarasis, where all of the survivors had settled. It was sparse, with just one room and a separate washroom, but it was furnished with a brazier and a bed, linens, and plenty of cushions. The soldiers had procured several articles of clothing that were more Veretian in nature than a chiton, and the garments were folded neatly on a small table against the wall.

“These will be your quarters. They are not grand, but I hope you find them acceptable.”

Amille nodded but did not speak, just glanced around the room.

“I have orders from my commander to keep you in Tarasis, but he does not want you to feel imprisoned.”

“You mean Prince Damianos?” Amille said quietly, with a touch of flint in his tone. Berenger stiffened next to him.

“Yes,” said Nikandros evenly, “He informed me that you have been through more than one atrocity - for that, I have much remorse. He wants you to feel safe here, and so do I.”

“I am not safe anywhere,” said Amille simply, “He will find me. He doesn’t tolerate loose ends.”

“The beast would have to breach an entire Akielon army to get you,” scoffed Nikandros, “I do not know of any man who could accomplish that.” 

“It’s not -'' said Amille as he glared at the floor, “about him. It’s someone worse.” The fight seemed to drain out of his body. He walked over to the bed and collapsed upon it, and Nikandros could see his shoulders trembling lightly.

“Tarasis is guarded and fortified, and I will not let it be breached,” said Nikandros, “You may wander the city at your leisure, though you will not be able to leave these walls. For that, I apologize, but it will assure your safety.”

“Now my safety is of concern,” spat Amille.

“The safety of all victims is our concern,” said Berenger sternly, and Amille flinched.

Nikandros continued, making his Veretian as gentle as possible, “I have been told that you bear psychological scars as well as physical ones. We have physicians here in town that can help you if you wish it. You have been hurt, but I do not wish to see you harm yourself in despair.”

Amille scratched at his arms absently, then said, “I don’t want to be in pain anymore right now. Dying is painful.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Nikandros, “One more thing before I leave you to settle.”

Nikandros raised his knuckles and knocked three times on the inside of the front door, and it was flung open immediately from the outside. A young girl walked in and appraised Amille with her good eye, hands on her hips.

“This is Hypatia. She volunteered to be your guide here. Anything you need, Hypatia can help you find it. She also had a direct line of contact with me, so please do not hesitate to ask for aid.”

Amille and Hypatia studied each other: she observed the scar on his throat, and he looked over her exposed burns.

“I’ve got it from here, Kyros,” said Hypatia dismissively, and Nik smiled as she went to sit on the bed next to a stupefied Amille.

“Then take care, both of you,” said Nik, before he and Berenger stepped out of the house, into the night.

~~~~

Damen saved the silver for last. Silver was not the most stubborn energy he had encountered - that honor went to a mineral that Laurent called moissanite, which was apparently of celestial origin, and it took Damen an entire day to coerce into a glyph. No, he waited for the silver because it would mean destroying the knife. Laurent liked that knife. He also used it to kill a man several times.

The energy was conducted more easily than the last time he tried with Nicaise - instead of just a splinter of silver in his mind, he drew the power into a long wire, taking care not to pause and cause a weak point in the strand. He curled it into the glyph and it coiled like a snake, ready to spring once activated. Silver reminded him of Laurent, in a way.

The dagger, once sharp enough to slit a man’s throat, fell away to glittering dust in Damen’s hand. 

“It is done,” said Damen to Laurent, who approached from across the tower with soft clicks. “Sorry about your knife.”

“This is better than what I was using it for,” Laurent murmured. 

He lifted the tome from the table and closed it tightly, with finality - the energies inside emitted a concave sound, like an implosion, and the edges of the binding glowed bright red. It was sealed; the power inside had coalesced into a new and complex form.

Laurent looked up at Damen with a gentle satisfaction, a rare smile that was becoming more common. “You finished early. We have a month before the curse terminates.”

“I assumed you would rather break it as soon as possible.”

“You assumed correctly.” Laurent pulled the tome close to his body. “I need to prepare the ritual space in the ballroom and handle some private matters. Can you inform Nicaise and the others about our intent?”

“Of course.”

“Then meet me tonight, in the ballroom. After the sun has fully set.”

~~~~

“Nikandros, I need to speak with you,” said Berenger, as they walked away from the house. 

Nikandros sighed, “I assumed, after what Amille said. Let’s find some privacy first.” 

They went to Nikandros’s quarters, a large set of rooms on the ground floor of the newly constructed barracks. A slave waited by one of the low couches in the common room, and she fell into a graceful prostration on the stone floor. Nikandros greeted her, but sent her away to the kitchens with instructions to first eat her own fill, and then bring back refreshments.

“I’ll never get used to that,” Berenger muttered as he watched the slave slink out of the room.

“She can’t be all that much different than a Veretian pet,” said Nikandros, eyebrows raised.

“Not in circumstance, no. But service is a game for pets, and they are paid well for playing, or sometimes for not playing. The level of subservience that slaves display is still very foreign to me.” 

“Yours sounds like a system designed to cause intrigue.”

“Absolutely,” said Berenger as he sat on one of the low couches. “Intrigue is an asset for pets.”

Nikandros shook his head, then sat across from Berenger and took a deep breath. All traces of the previous conversation fell away and the atmosphere grew intense and serious.

“Damianos is alive.”

Berenger exhaled heavily. He looked less shocked now and there was palpable relief in his gaze. 

“Did you end up at Acquitart?” asked Berenger.

Nikandros gaped for a second, “Yes - The master of Acquitart took myself and then Damen prisoner. He’s cruel, a sorcerer bewitched to the form of a beast, some curse. Damen traded his freedom for mine." Nikandros scoffed, "Noble idiot.”

“A beast, you say.” Berenger’s eyes gazed long through space, as if straining to see a ghost. “I met a man named Jord in the woods. He escorted Amille from the castle. His body was -”

“A training pell,” finished Nikandros. “Jord was very kind to me while I was imprisoned.”

“I knew of him,” said Berenger, “Many years ago, in Vere. He probably does not remember me. He was of common birth, but Prince Auguste was so impressed by his swordsmanship that he gave him a spot on the Prince’s Guard. I thought he died at Marlas. I was shocked to see him, especially looking like -” He trailed off, brows furrowed against his whirling intuition.

Nikandros leaned in, the weight of the mystery drawing him forward. “What are you thinking, Berenger?”

“You will think I’m mad, Kyros,” said Berenger with a shake of his head.

“Out with it.” 

“If there is a curse on Acquitart, I suspect that Damianos might not be the only prince alive in that castle.”

~~~~

The ballroom was behind a set of double doors underneath the grand staircase. It was beautiful, once, but had not been kept in any state of repair. The stained glass windows refracted the spectres of moonrays and the air was thick with the smell of cool moisture and mildew. Carved columns painted in gold and white flanked the main dance floor, and nestled behind them were the ubiquitous Veretian nooks, meant for a more private form of dancing. The main floor was clear and the center had been swept to a semblance of cleanliness, at least rid of most dust and dirt.

Laurent had drawn an enormous circle on the ground, at least twice as large as the one in the tower, in red paint of some variety. Black candles also ringed the circle at close intervals, and they were already lit and pooling wax on the ground. Runes and spiraling glyphs ringed the circle, weaving around the candles - Damen had the abstract notion that Laurent had carved them into the foundation of the castle itself.

“Are you ready?” asked Damen. 

Laurent was standing inside the circle near the north edge. He met Damen’s eyes and nodded. The countercurse tome was placed on the floor in the exact center, closed.

“This will be intense,” said Laurent. “Stand across from me.”

Damen stepped carefully over the candles and took his place at the south side of the circle.

“Your energy signature is woven within the tome because you worked with it so much - you will feel highly uncomfortable when I activate the countercurse, but there will be no lasting damage.”

Damen mirrored Laurent’s posture - feet shoulder-width apart, arms to the sides, back straight, chin up. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing mind.

“Here we go,” said Laurent.

Energies stirred in the air, stringing tightly and streaming towards the circle in every direction. The vast conjunction of ley lines responded to Laurent’s call, and Damen felt the castle shudder in a rushing flux beneath his feet.

Laurent threw out his right hand and extended his fingers wide, claws scratching at the air - the runes activated one by one in a widdershins movement around the circle and the black candles flared in a wave. Laurent pointed his left hand at the tome, and it flew open, glowing in that deep red light, luminous like blood in direct sunlight. 

The static pooled under Damen’s skin, then it turned to an intense scrabbling, a thousand stiletto points nicking into his muscles. He could taste the energy in the air, electric, like the moment before a lightning strike. He forced his breaths to come in deep deliberate drags.

The tome’s energy crystallized around them like a dome, and the energy in the ley lines beneath the castle rose to meet it. Laurent held steady for a moment, then loudly enunciated a string of words in that unknown language, the one that made Damen think of the Artesian empire and lost civilizations. His words strummed the lines of power like a great harp, and the magic began to vibrate in time with his tongue, swaying like a snake mid-charm.

The last syllable broke the trance, and the dome began to crack. Tendrils of energy whipped around untethered, the crimson glow grew blinding, the book snapped shut.

“Fuck,” said Laurent.

The circle exploded. Damen was hit with a blast of energy like a punch to the face, so hard that it bruised and split his lower lip, and it threw him back across the floor of the ballroom. He tasted blood and tried to wipe the grit from his vision. The magic had knocked the wind from his lungs - he tripped once as he got to his feet and dragged himself, coughing, to find Laurent.

The circle was decimated, candles and bits of wax strewn everywhere, painted runes covered in scorch marks. Laurent was curled on his side, breathing heavily, and his tail thrashed against the floor.

“A knockback,” said Laurent in disgust, “A rebuff. Something was missing from the countercurse..”

The tome was blown to shreds, now just the stubs of pages and loose binding. Damen doubted it would be useful again. Laurent raised himself to his knees and bowed his head. He was shaking, and would not meet Damen’s eyes.

“Look, whatever just happened, we can try again, or find another method. We have the time.”

“We can’t, Damen. I can’t replicate the contents of that tome in a year, much less a month.” Laurent was breathless, his voice raspy, “All viable options have been exhausted. The fate of Acquitart is sealed. I failed.” He shuddered on his knees and sighed. “I can only focus on Auguste now.”

Damen felt the heat in his body rising, pure rage, white-hot like the blast of a forge, rippling through every vein in his body. He stalked towards Laurent with distinct heavy footfalls.

“So you’re just going to, what? Give up on yourself? Doom everyone in this castle to a lifetime of your melancholy? Kill yourself?” Damen was shouting, hands balled into tight fists. “What of your men? And Nicaise? What of Auguste, who will certainly want to be with his brother?” 

“You saw what I did to him!” shouted Laurent. His eyes were glossy and wild. “You saw what I did to Aimeric. Those inclinations come to my mind easily now. The brother Auguste would be proud of, he doesn’t exist anymore. I did not win against my uncle. I miscalculated years ago, and now, it’s over.”

Damen closed the space between them, feeling like the steam of a doused campfire, and wrapped his large hands around Laurent’s shoulders. He wanted to shake him, but instead, leaned in close. He did not force Laurent to look at him, but rested his cheek against his feathers, and spoke softly into his ear. He felt the thrum of Laurent’s erratic pulse

“I can’t claim to understand the corruption of your uncle, but I know it has affected several of the men in this castle: Aimeric. Ancel, perhaps. Nicaise. You.” Damen swallowed, “That list is too long for my liking. I am stubborn when it comes to protecting the people I care about,” Damen swallowed, “The people I love.” He smiled gently and Laurent pressed into him, tense as a bowstring.

“I won’t let you give up yet. Let us think of another path, and try again.” Damen smoothed his fingers along soft feathers in what he hoped was a soothing gesture.

“There is another way,” said Laurent, voice breaking, as if he had to rip the admission from deep within his guts. “But I had eliminated it as a possibility.” He pulled back to look up at Damen, and his expression was fathomless; he looked like a pale oracle of the gods, ready to dispense a devastating prophecy.

“What is it?” said Damen, heart racing.

“I fulfill the requirements of the curse, instead of trying to break it.” Laurent’s eyes flickered like infinite halls of mirrors, reflecting alternating wells of hope and grief, on and on, ad nauseam. 

“My uncle cast binding words into the weave of the curse, requirements for resolving it. A method for breaking it.” Laurent swallowed thickly, “He said: ‘You must learn to accept and return love when it is given to you.’ It was meant as a lesson, one he knew I could never learn. After Auguste died, there has been no one in my life who could facilitate that end.”

Damen lifted his hands from where they cupped Laurent’s shoulders and brushed them along both sides of his pale jaw.

“You miscalculated,” said Damen. 

He touched Laurent’s cheekbone delicately with the pad of his thumb, like Laurent was made of glass, across his ivory skin and those blue scales. Laurent quivered in place as Damen leaned down slowly, glacially, and hovered his mouth above Laurent’s, waiting, breathing the same air, asking a question without words. The answer was given with a tremble as Laurent pressed his cold lips to Damen’s. 

It was a feather-light brush at first, barely on the edge of perception, then Laurent was surging towards the heat of Damen’s mouth, lips pliant and cool and soft as flower petals. Damen guided him into a gentle rhythm of soft pressing, slow and purposeful, and felt their lips grow warm and wet. He breathed Laurent, lingering to suck on his full upper lip, daring a swipe of tongue, lapping at the plump bow of his pout before minutely slipping inside. A gentle gasp from Laurent, parted lips, a surprising flick of a forked tongue, returning affections. Damen tasted iron from his own bleeding lip mixed with Laurent's intoxicating signature - he did taste bitter and sweet, just like a grapefruit, just like Damen hoped, just like the essence of Laurent himself. 

The most tender kiss of Damen’s life was ripped apart by a magical force that threw him backward across the polished ballroom floor. He scrambled back to his feet and raced towards Laurent, who was hovering high above the ground by some great magical force, lips still glossy from their kiss. Any desire had drained from his face and he now looked to be on the verge of screaming.

Laurent tensed his jaw as a spasm overcame his body, pulling him taunt in the air. His claws began to visibly recede into his extremities, revealing human nails and long white fingers, and new digits sprouted where they had been missing. The scales on his body fell away like roof tiles in a windstorm, dropping from the wrist and ankle holes of his clothes and scattering onto the floor. His body writhed under his shirt and jacket, torso recalibrating to a human form, as his tail receded into his back with a hideous grinding sound. 

When his neck began to snap and twist, remaking the entire structure of his spine, Laurent did scream. His face opened grotesquely wide for the last time - protruding fangs dislodged from his mouth and clattered with finality to the floor as his face knit itself together. The hood of feathers transformed into fine glossy hair, pale golden like champagne, and it fell like a river of light down to his mid-back. The blue of his eyes was just as vivid, but the color became concentrated in human irises.

When the spell finished its transformation, it dropped a very human Laurent unceremoniously to the floor.

He landed hard on his left shoulder. “Ow,” Laurent mumbled. He pushed himself up, touched his face with human hands, examined his fingers as they wound around a strand of hair that had fallen across his symmetrical features. 

Damen rushed to Laurent's side and patted down his chest and shoulders in a practical manner, checking for a break or distortion, any sign that he was injured. Damen placed a gentle hand under Laurent’s chin and tilted his face up to check for bruising or abrasions. 

“Wow,” gaped Damen, “you’re -”

“Human?” Laurent interrupted, and he smiled like the sun.

“Yes. Much more than that.” Damen held him close in an embrace, feeling the softness of skin that replaced scales, tracing the pads of his smooth clawless fingertips. Damen’s lips tingled and felt blissfully numb from their kiss, and he longed to pull in Laurent for another, to lavish attention on every inch of him.

Suddenly, Laurent went rigid in his arms.

“Auguste.”

Damen reacted and pulled him to his bare feet, but Laurent faltered, tipping sideways, and swore. “No more tail for balance,” he gritted out, as Damen braced him with an arm around his waist and practically carried him forward, out of the ballroom, into the foyer.

When they burst into the entry, they saw two human men - Damen knew them immediately to be Lazar and Orlant. Their arms were slung over one another's shoulders, and they sang bawdily, dancing some bastardization of a barhouse jig, both of them completely nude. Joyous tear tracks traced down both of their faces, Lazar with his long Veretian nose and cheeky smile, and Orlant, who still had a smashed and somewhat crooked countenance. They cheered and whistled as Damen slung Laurent up the stairs to the west wing. 

A boy bearing Nicaise’s doll features was standing in the rotunda, wrapped several times around in a plush velvet blanket, and when he saw Damen and Laurent, he jumped excitedly and yelled: “I dispelled the door hex already, he’s awake, go!”

Damen lifted Laurent through the door to Auguste’s chambers, taking care to avoid placing Laurent’s bare feet on the shards of glass and ceramic that littered the floor, then dropped him on the side of Auguste’s bed. With wide eyes, Damen looked once again upon the face of the man he killed at Marlas.

“Auguste, stay still,” Laurent said with clear panic in his voice. As much as he might have prepared for this moment mentally, nothing could have steeled Laurent to see his brother bleeding out so rapidly, to see the red pouring onto the bedsheets like wine. 

“Laurent?” said Auguste in a rich baritone, obviously confused and pain addled. Laurent had aged significantly since Auguste had last seen him, but the relation was unmistakable.

The black skull was already on the bedside table, certainly due to Laurent’s prior preparation, and a circle had been painted around the bed in white. Damen stepped within the bounds of the circle and handed the skull to Laurent, who gripped it with white knuckles.

“It’s me,” said Laurent, his voice on the edge of a sob. He pressed his left hand to the gushing wound, clutching the skull in his right.

Auguste winced but did not squirm, kept his blue eyes fixed on Laurent as his flesh began to knit together. Laurent cleaved into the power of the skull, yanking it free with every ounce of his discipline, and it burst outwards, amalgamating with Laurent’s power until the air vibrated like a kettle about to boil over. Damen’s skin was on fire, but his whole face felt numb, and Laurent’s eyes narrowed to battered slits. He was practically heaving power into the wound, throwing the entire raw weight of his magic behind it.

The skull shattered in Laurent’s hand. Auguste moaned softly as the healing spell faltered.

“It’s not enough!” said Laurent, almost growling, desperate, “It’s been open for too long, it needs too much - I can’t - Damen, I wasted it - I -”

“Take mine,” Damen rumbled, voice distant against the roar of power in the circle. Laurent whipped around to look at him with wide wet eyes.

“I give it freely. Take it.” He reached down and selected one of the many pieces of glass strewn across the floor, sliced his palm open with a determined slash, then gripped Laurent’s hand tightly. Damen’s hot blood oozed through their intertwined fingers.

“Damianos?” whispered Auguste, looking somewhere other than Laurent for the first time. Damen did not have time to respond. With a noxious ripping sensation, Damen became overwhelmed, all sensory input distorted, and he tried desperately to relax, to not struggle against the pull of the energy from his body. 

Laurent gulped air, his eyes blew wide, and the healing spell reignited. 

Damen cleared his mind, tracking the path of his own power where it flowed from his palm into the river of Laurent’s magic. With a deep breath, he started pushing the magic out of his body, following the path, becoming an avalanche of power, a charging cavalry line, giving life to Laurent with as much force as his focus could manage. 

Just as Damen felt near collapse, Laurent severed the spell and released Damen’s hand. Laurent fell forward onto Auguste, gasping for air, frantically pressing both hands against where the wound had been. There was a shiny scar, red and ugly, inflamed against Auguste’s pale skin, but he was whole, and he wrapped his arms around Laurent tightly.

With the reflexes of a trained warrior, Auguste pulled Laurent to the other side of the bed, then rolled them both to the floor, near the hearth. Auguste lifted a three-pronged fire poker and held it with a grace of a sword. He positioned his body in a fighting stance, square between Damen and Laurent.

“Prince Damianos. Have you come for another bout? I just found out that you failed the first time.” Auguste held himself regally, though he was dressed in bloodstained silk bedclothes.

“I promise, I’m here in peace,” said Damen, holding his hands up. He felt weak from being drained of energy, and his breath was coming in short constricted gasps. From what he knew of Auguste, he would never strike a weakened unarmed man. To Laurent, he added breathlessly, “Why do I always - get threatened with forks?”

Laurent snorted and absurd bemusement crossed his exhausted face. “Auguste, hold.” 

“I made a mistake during our duel, by letting you rearm yourself,” said Auguste, not listening. He stalked around the side of the bed like a jaguar, fire poker raised in a defensive flourish.

“I mean - you and Laurent - no harm - I swear,” said Damen, swollen tongue tripping over the words with difficulty. He was finding it increasingly harder to breathe. The tingling and numbness in his face had extended down his neck, and his throat swelled closed. Damen's face was feverish and he realized that he was coated in a sheen of sweat.

“Damianos?” asked Auguste, looking suddenly alarmed. He lowered the fire poker.

“Damen?” Laurent leaped over the bed as Damen’s knees buckled. He pressed the pads of his fingers against Damen’s neck, feeling the swelling, and left a trail of bloody fingerprints across his throat.

“Mouth, fuzzing, numb - can’t breathe.”

“When did it start?” Laurent asked. Damen could feel the pulse in his fingers, hammering wildly.

“After we -” Damen gasped and looked pointedly at Laurent’s mouth.

Laurent brushed his thumb against Damen’s lip, split when the countercurse had backfired. It was still open, swollen, blood not yet congealed. An open wound that Laurent had kissed with his venomous mouth. Laurent swore.

“Nicaise!” The young man appeared in the doorway, pausing a second to stare owlishly at an equally bewildered Auguste.

“He’s alive,” said Nicaise with wonder. Then he looked at Damen, who was starting to see black spots in his vision. “What happened to him?”

“An accident,” said Laurent, “I need you to run to the tower, quickly,”

“For what?” asked Nicaise.

“I need the antiserum. The one specifically for my venom.” Laurent touched Damen’s split lip softly.

“You didn’t.” Nicaise backed out of the room, stifling high-pitched laughter.

“Shut up. Go, now. Hurry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always imagined auguste looking like the actual prince from the disney beauty and the beast


	7. Damen & Laurent & Auguste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damen & Laurent & Auguste POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: this chapter will be short, not much action before the next major plot point  
> this 11k word chapter: WRONG
> 
> anyway, we earn that E-rating. bon appétit
> 
> ****TW****  
> There are heavy implications about what the Regent did to Nicaise, but its brief, and nothing at all explicit. read safely ♡

_Hurry._

Nicaise darted from the room like a cackling trickster spirit of mirth, but Laurent was assured that he would be quick about retrieving the antivenom. He seemed to like Damen quite a bit, despite his constant obstinacy. Laurent supposed he could apply the same logic to himself. He also liked Damen quite a bit, despite.

For so long, Laurent promised to fate, to the gods, to spirits in the woods, to whatever might listen, that he would forfeit anything to save Auguste, even if it meant giving his own life. But he did not want to lose Damen, sacrifice one good man to save another. The realization was weightless, it felt like freefall, like he had leapt from a spire of Acquitart and was suspended mid-plummet, mid-rush, mid-heartbeat.

“Damen. Focus on my voice. You must continue breathing, above all else.” Laurent was leaning over him, slightly crouched. He placed a hand on Damen’s forehead and it burned beneath his palm. Feverish, and his eyes drooped unnaturally, as though he was fighting consciousness. A spasm wracked through his torso, and Laurent pulled him close to keep him from thrashing.

“I have - envenomed you,” Laurent murmured into his ear, “I didn’t realize - I’ve never had to - my saliva, it must have contained -” 

Damen gasped and seized, thick arms shaking uncontrollably. Laurent knew symptoms of his venom well - initial tingling and numbness lead to swelling, specifically of the blood vessels and air pathways to the lungs, cutting off the circulation of vital resources to the brain. It was also a potent nerve agent, sending impulses through Damen’s muscles that caused him to flinch and writhe beyond his control. 

A vicious spasm robbed Damen of the ability to hold himself upright - he leaned his substantial weight onto Laurent, who braced him with a firm shoulder. Laurent shuddered slightly with the impact, then again spoke directly into his ear: “Nicaise will be back soon, just keep breathing as much as possible.”

Damen was conscious, but Laurent did not know to what extent, or how aware he was of his surroundings or circumstances. He seemed to have internalized the instruction to breathe, but the sound was a weak wheezing suction, probably not enough air to keep his head from swimming. 

Laurent turned to Auguste, who looked like a man about to spout steam from his ears. His eyes were wide, blue as Laurent’s, but darker, a color pulled from the depths of the ocean rather than the shallows. Despite having postured to stab Damen not two minutes prior, he looked highly concerned. It was the same expression he wore when Laurent was sick as a child, when he would visit after bedtime and fuss over Laurent's care: open worry, papered over ineffectively by his steady composure and charisma. Auguste’s eyes had always sung the story of his heart, even when his mannerisms dictated otherwise.

“I’m going to need your help for this,” said Laurent. Auguste abandoned the fire poker completely and strode immediately to Laurent’s side, where he kneeled with cracking knees. He beheld Damen with more dismay than distaste, which Laurent felt was a good sign.

“This is - Prince Damianos of Akielos?” asked Auguste skeptically.

“Yes,” said Laurent. He took a steadying breath. “Can you help me lift him to the bed?”

Auguste nodded and appraised Damen for a moment - Auguste was tall and broad, with an obvious warrior’s body and musculature, but even he seemed diminished by Damen’s pure mass. With odd and apologetic delicacy, Auguste lifted Damen’s tensed arm, seizing and shaking, and slung it around his own shoulder; Laurent pivoted and indelicately wormed his shoulders under Damen’s other arm. With a great combined effort, they both lifted him from knees to swaying feet. It was lucky that he had not moved far from the bed. Four stunted steps forward, and he collapsed, mostly contained on the mattress. 

Auguste’s blood was cool on the sheets but still tacky. It was a strange reversal of fate, a rebuff, Damen currently suffocating where Auguste had been bleeding out minutes before. Laurent decided that if everyone made it through the next hour alive, he was going to burn the bed, maybe everything in the room. Maybe the entire castle.

Nicaise skidded in suddenly, clutching a latched wooden box by its two metal handles. He shoved it into Laurent’s lap, then backed halfway across the room to a safe appraising distance.

Auguste tilted a reassuring smile towards Nicaise as if to say, _‘You did so well, everything will be fine now.’_ It was the same smile that would have made a younger and more innocent Laurent feel so safe, so comforted. Nicaise was young, but not so innocent anymore - he regarded the smile with the incredulity of a precocious teenager stating the obvious: _‘You don’t know he’ll be fine. You don’t even know what’s going on here, old man.’_

Laurent’s fingers were clumsy as he unlatched the box - he felt like his depth perception was off. The muscle memory for completing common tasks was wired incorrectly in his brain to include claws, not blunt soft human fingertips. He forcefully repressed his frustration, funneling the energy behind that emotion into a series of precise steps: delicately lift a ten-drop vial of venom antiserum, unstop it without spilling the precious contents, lift a hollow-needle steel syringe, the finest gauge available, and place the tip into the vial.

Laurent drew the clear antivenom into the syringe, collecting every microbead of liquid. He turned to Auguste, who had sheepishly given up on trying to soothe Nicaise. 

“Can you hold him upright? Keep him as still as possible.” Laurent adjusted the syringe to release any air bubbles while Auguste braced Damen tightly, pressing his arms to his sides.

Laurent put a hand on Damen’s cheek, closed one eye, and stuck the tip of the needle in the direct center of the open cut on Damen’s lip. Auguste shuddered with the effort of holding down Damen’s flinch.

“This isn’t going to be pleasant. I’m sorry,” said Laurent and he slowly pushed down the plunger on the syringe. It was a delicate balance to strike - forcing the antivenom into the wound too quickly would be excruciating, and could cause ruptures in the tissue. But responding too slowly could result in necrosis of the tissues around the envenomed area. That area happened to be Damen’s bottom lip, which Laurent was determined to keep intact for future study.

“He’s been poisoned?” asked Auguste, weathering another severe spasm.

“Something like that,” said Laurent. “There is only a small amount, I think, in his bloodstream. He would be dying significantly faster with a larger dose.”

When the first syringe was empty, there were signs of improvement: Damen’s breathing came easier, and the shaking was minimized to bouts of trembling. Laurent lifted another vial and a new clean syringe, and repeated the process, apologizing quietly in Damen’s ear when he had to stick him again. This time, Damen was able to huff out a breath in response, though his words were still trapped behind a swollen tongue and throat.

Three more vials and an hour later, Damen looked more normal - the undertones of his dark skin were warm and considerably less ashen than before, and his breathing was rough but unobstructed. His face was slightly puffy and swollen, but his limbs had stopped twitching, and he could stay upright. He even had enough breath to thank Auguste for holding him steady, though his speech was slightly slurred, deep and gravelly. Auguste hesitated before clapping him on the shoulder awkwardly and retreating to one of the armchairs by the fire that leaked stuffing.

“I think I’m alright now,” said Damen with an exhausted smile, “You did it.” 

The feeling of success washed over Laurent, strange and thrilling - he was glowing from within, like the sensation of bathing in sunlight. Before his heady boldness fled, Laurent cupped Damen’s cheek and thumbed at his dimple. Laurent’s human skin was so much more sensitive than his scaly flesh, and Damen’s face was warm under his palm.

Over Damen’s shoulder, Auguste pointedly looked away, into the fire. Nicaise made an exaggerated gagging motion on the opposite side of the room, but he was also smiling more genuinely than Laurent had ever seen him. 

Laurent pulled away after a moment of relishing and turned his mind to what still must be accomplished. He had planned so meticulously, up until the point where he was to heal Auguste. Laurent had never been positive that he would survive that step, so planning for the aftermath, for a future, had been mostly overlooked.

His first inclination was to speak to Auguste, and for once, he was not going to second-guess himself. He stood carefully from the bed and made sure that Damen was steady when he rose to his feet. Laurent made for the center of the room, and Damen followed with a nervous air.

Everyone looked at everyone. Auguste had risen to a posture that appeared nonchalant but was one shift of weight away from a fighting stance. Now that Damen had regained more of his faculties, Auguste peered at him warily. There were two other fire pokers nearby.

This standoff would help no one, so Laurent moved to break it. He nudged Damen’s side and looked up: “You’re going to need to rest now. From what I’ve been told, almost dying is exhausting.”

“It is, I can confirm,” said Auguste with a strained and crooked grin, failing to contain his natural jocularity, even in the face of his mortal enemy. Damen smiled wryly in return, and Laurent felt some slack in the tension of the room.

To Nicaise, Laurent said, “Would you watch Damen for a while? If he displays any symptoms, I need to be alerted right away.” 

Nicaise scrunched his nose but then just shrugged his shoulders in acquiescence. “If I have to. We’re going to your chambers though - I’m not going to get blood all over mine. And I’m going to eat your secret stash of hard candies.”

“Fine,” Laurent said. Nicaise often used Laurent’s chambers anyway, for reading or napping, and for testing any maniacal pranks he had concocted - when he borrowed Laurent’s bed, his doll body would somehow take up the entire large space, like a spoiled and presumptive cat. Laurent was content to share, as he would often pass out in the tower or the library anyway. 

“I’ll check on you after,” murmured Laurent to Damen, who looked a little put-off at the idea of leaving Laurent’s side, “But I need to explain myself first.”

“Until later then.” Damen nodded at Auguste, then followed Nicaise from the room.

Laurent turned to Auguste, who stood by the fire. He did indeed look exhausted. Waking years had not etched wrinkles on his face, but he appeared older now that he was animated. The physical toll of recovering from a fatal wound had drained him of some vigor and put years on his countenance that he lacked in enchanted sleep.

“You’ve grown so much Laurent,” said Auguste sadly. “I was out for a long time, wasn’t I?”

“Eight years.” Those two words opened an immense chasm between them. Auguste visibly rocked back on his heels, his eyes unfocused in shock.

“I - want to tell you,” Laurent swallowed, “all that I can. But not here. I hate this room.” Laurent’s eyes swept to an old family portrait, done in a pompous and romanticized style. He had partially shredded it in a rage during the first years of his curse, though his own painted face was still intact. It looked obscenely naive.

“To the library then, if it holds better memories,” said Auguste, interrupting Laurent’s burgeoning brooding. “That spot with the purple couches.”

Laurent nodded and gestured to his brother’s attire. “All of your old clothes are still in the wardrobe if you prefer to be less bloody.” 

Auguste glanced down at his bedclothes. “I don’t think the red suits my coloring,” he said, shrugging.

Laurent leveled him with a glacial gaze that had frozen lesser men solid. “No, it doesn’t, strawberry tart.”

“You heard a girl call me that just once,” Auguste sputtered, “and you remembered? All this time?”

Laurent rolled his eyes. “Get dressed, tart. I need to collect some things from my study, but I’ll meet you in the library. ”

~~~~

“You did all of these?” asked Auguste as his fingers traced lines of illustration. Several leather tomes were strewn on the couch around him, all containing Laurent’s art. Auguste flipped the pages with reverence, like one would read a holy book. His quick eyes carefully studied each picture.

The current volume was a taxonomical collection of local flora and fauna: a page dedicated to the fractal spirals of fiddlehead ferns, mushrooms and fungi clinging to gigantic and ancient trees, diagrams of the varying growth patterns of lichen species, snapshots of a bird’s nest over the course of weeks, while chicks hatched from eggs - a chamois in painstaking detail, followed by the same chamois bisected with labeled organs. 

“These are remarkable.” Auguste tore his eyes from the page and looked upon Laurent with wonder.

“It helped my magical studies, to be able to illustrate. I found that I possessed some skill.”

“More than just some,” Auguste leaned close to study a drawing of a wild horse that munched clover from the forest floor.

“In your time asleep,” said Laurent, “Much has changed. I thought that the drawings might also help catalogue my experiences.” He pulled the current book from Auguste’s hands and replaced it with a more narrow volume.

This book was an illustrated journal, a series of impressions that vaguely mapped out his time at Acquitart. The pieces within were not Laurent’s best works - they contained far more emotion at times than realism, more perception than actual truth. Even so, they communicated fossilized moments and feelings that Laurent could not adequately express with words.

The first page showed the field at Marlas. It was a rough sketch, one of Laurent’s earliest pieces, drawn from memory after he was imprisoned in Acquitart. The men on the field were little more than circles and gestures, but the starburst banner that floated above the field was crisp, the only focused object in the whole scene.

“Father fell on the field. You fell in the duel. Uncle had arranged a spell that was to activate if you were slain. I’m still not sure about the specifics of that magic, but it ended the battle. Uncle surrendered Delfleur to Akielos.”

Auguste swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice was filled with a palpable guilty ache, “All of this is my fault, Laurent. I’m so sorry. If I had only defeated Damianos when he was disarmed -”

“Auguste,” Laurent interrupted, “Excuse me, but I promise that you have not an inkling of the direction this story will take. Before you mislay blame on yourself, let me explain.”

Laurent gestured to the book, and Auguste turned the page. He inhaled sharply at the illustration of himself, sleeping, as Laurent had viewed him for so many years. This was another early drawing, so the likeness was imperfect, but similar enough - Auguste looked peaceful and ethereal, like a slumbering god.

“Uncle’s spell saved you, in a way - he put you in suspended sleep. It kept you alive, your wound stopped killing you, and you didn’t bleed out. I have since mastered that one, actually, so I know partially how it works, but I’m not sure if you felt the passage of time or not.”

“I have vague impressions, sounds mostly, but they feel like dreams. I certainly don’t feel like I slept for eight years. Maybe like I slept in after a night of drinking.”

Laurent bowed his head, “I’m glad for that. I was afraid,” he swallowed audibly, trying to unstick the words from his throat, “that all this time, you might have been trapped, or paralyzed, and in pain.”

“Not at all,” said Auguste softly. He looked upon the illustration once more, then gently turned the page.

This one was Laurent’s first architectural study: the view of Acquitart from outside the walls on the northwest side of the castle. It looked less overgrown, more crisp, and maintained. Full of vitality, if such a description could be applied to a castle. The stone spires rose amongst the canopy like primeval fossilized conifers. 

“Uncle took the throne, claiming that, alongside father, both of us had died at Marlas. He hid us here in Acquitart. At the time, I was under the mistaken impression that he was protecting us and searching for a cure for your wound. Uncle is the present King of Vere.”

Auguste looked ready to roar fire. His fingers clenched the sides of the book in a rage.

“He was supposed to become Regent and guard the succession until you came of age. He usurped you. ”

“Usurped you, actually. You’re the rightful king, Auguste.”

It seemed that Auguste had not thought of that, with everything else going on. He visibly paled, and it made him look older. “Father is long gone, isn’t he.”

“Yes,” said Laurent evenly, “I am told that our joint funeral was the most regal and somber ceremony in the history of Vere, but I was not allowed to attend, for obvious reasons.”

Auguste shook his head and turned to the next page. It was a portrait of Uncle, from the shoulders up, one that Laurent had drawn to practice facial anatomy. The smile that Laurent had once viewed as safe and wise now leered at him from the page, and the shading took on a sinister air amongst the creeping lines of illustration, threatening to pool across the entire page like a spilled inkpot.

“I thought he was on our side, Auguste. I was naive.” 

“You were thirteen, Laurent. You lost everything in one afternoon, except him. How could you have known?”

Laurent felt like chunks of ice were scraping through his veins. If he was to tell Auguste, it would make sense to do so now.

“He taught me the fundamentals of magic, and I truly enjoyed it. I thought he might teach me enough, that I might learn enough to cure you someday. He -” 

Laurent stuttered and stopped. Closed his mouth. Opened his mouth. Took a sharp breath of air through his nose.

_You always give me so much power._

Laurent couldn’t. Not today at least. 

“He - was cruel, but I was made to view it as necessary. Eventually, I exhausted my usefulness to him. I inevitably angered him and he cursed the whole castle, myself, and everyone in Acquitart. Look through the next several pages.”

Auguste flipped the page and expelled a heavy breath. It was a self-portrait that Laurent had completed in the weeks before he was cursed. Laurent had spent hours sitting in front of his full-length mirror, peering into his own eyes, and sketching his facial structure. The end result was a boy stretched taut by burgeoning lanky puberty, with flat eyes, a utilitarian gaze, a look that said, _‘I have done what you asked of me.’_

It made Laurent’s skin crawl almost as much as the portrait of Uncle.

Auguste opened his mouth, probably to apologize needlessly again, but Laurent shushed him and indicated that he should turn the page.

A gasp, this time. He leaned in close to the book, as if second-guessing what his eyes were seeing. Laurent had drawn this one painstakingly, determined to relearn how to illustrate with claws instead of fingers. It was rough despite his extra effort, and not as detailed as he wanted it to be. It showed Laurent’s reptilian body in diagram form, as he had drawn other animals many times before.

“Uncle transformed me into a reptilian beast. I have only just regained human form. Right before you awoke, actually.” 

Auguste was stunned into stillness, so Laurent took over with the page-turning. The next illustrations were of Jord, then Lazar and Orlant, Paschal, other transmogrified castle inhabitants.

“The men in our household became inhuman objects. They have also been just recently restored.”

Auguste shook his head, and his hair fell in front of his eyes. “So you removed Uncle's curse on the castle, just today?” 

“Yes.” said Laurent, “As soon as the curse was broken, so was your suspended sleep, so I had to rush and heal you before you succumbed to your wound.”

“Laurent, I -” Auguste faltered, “I know you have said that I do not carry blame for this, but I would give anything to go back in time right now.” He put a heavy hand on Laurent’s shoulder and gazed at him with pleading eyes. “I would have ceded Delfleur to Damianos on the spot, while every eye in Vere looked on, just to prevent this from happening to you.”

“I know, brother.” Laurent squirmed slightly and looked sidelong at Auguste. “Speaking of Damianos, I want you to know that he is a good man. As I have grown in these past eight years, so has he.” 

Auguste frowned but did not interrupt, so Laurent continued.

“I held him captive here for almost six months, with vengeful intent. I treated him viciously. I almost killed him on one occasion and was inclined to do so on many others. Even so, he still agreed to help me, help us. That is the type of man that Damianos is. He is honorable to a fault. Without him, the curse would have never been broken.” 

Laurent felt his face turning red and hoped it was obscured by the flickering firelight. Auguste did not know how exactly the curse was broken, and Laurent was loath to tell him just yet. 

“He also gave me blood energy from his body when I did not have enough to heal your wound, all the while succumbing to venom. So, alongside killing you, he also helped to bring you back to life, then almost died himself. Just some points for consideration.” Laurent locked eyes with Auguste and saw how conflicted he was, saw a smidge of betrayal enter his features.

“I would never ask you to forgive the man who killed you, but I need you to know that I hold him in high regard.” That was as much of a confession as Laurent had ever said out loud, and his chest tinged with the daring of it.

Laurent waited for Auguste, knowing that he needed time to consider his words. After close to a minute, he cleared his throat and spoke steadily: “I can’t lie convincingly, Laurent, you know. So I won’t say that I feel warmly towards Damianos.” Auguste’s eyes went hard. “I might even hate him, if I am truly honest. Akielons and their barbaric warmongering, all of it makes me sick. And he is their prince, Laurent, someday their king.” Auguste hummed, and then said bitterly, a bit lower, “Perhaps what I hate is that he was able to beat me.”

“Being terribly sore when we lose is a family trait, Auguste, it runs in our blood.” 

Auguste barked a laugh, and looked bewildered, like his own mirth surprised him. “If the prince truly did help break the curse, then I owe him my utmost gratitude. Perhaps even enough gratitude to cancel out the stabbing.” He ran his fingers through his strawberry blonde waves and then rubbed at his neck. “I’m going to have to befriend Damianos of Akielos, aren’t I?”

“One night of drinking and you can befriend anyone. It’s one of your better traits.” 

Laurent’s expression then turned serious and his smile faded as he spoke: “I also have reason to believe that Uncle was the cause of your defeat that day. Damen told me that your foot slipped -”

“You spoke with him about our duel?”

“I interrogated him. I think Uncle’s magic softened the terrain beneath your feet that day.”

“He wouldn’t have -” started Auguste, then he faltered. Resignation sketched across his features. “I can hardly believe any of this is real.” Auguste quickly backtracked, waving his hands in an apologetic fashion, “Not to say that I don’t believe you, I do. I just can’t understand how he could do this. We should be able to trust our family.”

“I thought so too, once,” said Laurent softly. “But that has not been my lived experience.”

“I will make this right, I swear it. We will reclaim Vere, and I will have his head.” Auguste’s countenance softened. “And I hope you know that you can trust me. I promise that it would take another death for me to abandon you.”

“I know,” said Laurent, and he meant it.

Auguste put both hands on Laurent’s shoulders and then pulled him in for a fierce hug. Laurent wrapped his arms around his brother’s back and squeezed, resting his chin on Auguste’s broad shoulder.

“You’re probably too old for this now, sorry,” said Auguste with a chuckle, “I’m not used to it yet. I guess I need to find a more adult way of showing you affection, one that won’t embarrass you.” 

He released Laurent, and tousled his pale blonde locks. “You’re still my little brother though, the most important person in the world to me. And I’m going to try and make up for all the years I couldn’t be there for you.”

“I missed you so much,” whispered Laurent. He tilted his head down, let a single drop fall from his eye, then wiped roughly at his face. Auguste’s eyes were similarly red and shimmering. He wrapped a reassuring arm around Laurent’s shoulders and the two sat in silence, composing themselves, for a few minutes.

“By the way, who is that boy?” asked Auguste, interrupting the ambience of the crackling fire. “The cranky one?”

“Nicaise,” said Laurent, “Another of Uncle’s castoffs. This castle contains quite a collection of wayward boys. He was cursed here a few years after the rest of us and I took a liking to him.” Laurent grinned devilishly. “He has a vocabulary that could make a battalion blush and razor wit to match. I’ve been teaching him sorcery, and he’s way more powerful than I was at his age, perhaps even a prodigy. You’ll like him, he stabbed Damen with a fork.”

“He has good taste in weaponry.” Auguste’s eyes narrowed, and he continued a little slyly, “You call the prince by his small name. Good friends then?”

“Yes - I think - we are friends,” said Laurent haltingly, with uncharacteristic ineloquence. Auguste smiled wide like a pleased cat, and Laurent smacked him lightly on the shoulder.

A few more quiet minutes passed, and Laurent found it difficult to keep his eyes open. The precipice of exhaustion was drawing near, and as much as he wanted to keep talking with Auguste, he knew that he would need to sleep soon or pass out on the spot.

“You must be tired,” said Auguste. Laurent’s composure was nonexistent - he probably looked like a shell of himself, fatigue obvious to anyone with sight. Auguste nudged him with his elbow. “You should get some rest, brother. I can entertain myself, you know. I promise to be here when you wake up.”

Laurent nodded gratefully, then rose and stumbled the short distance to his chambers, scuffing his bare toes on the floor more than he would have liked. His attire had been more or less spared of blood - only his jacket had been coated, and he had already shed that. He was ready to fall into his bed and sleep for hours.

As he walked through the arched doorway to his bedroom, Nicaise perked up. He was sprawled on a chaise, reading one of the many thick novels that Laurent kept on the nearby bookshelf, a bag of orange candies open on his lap. He had changed at some point, and was dressed in a pair of Laurent’s old silk pajamas. For the first time, Nicaise looked like a normal young man, and Laurent felt hopeful that maybe he could be, someday.

“No problems with him,” said Nicaise, flicking his thumb to the bed. Laurent belatedly noticed that Damen was indeed sleeping in his bed, blankets pulled up to his mid-chest, which was bare. And muscular. Polite of him to not wear his bloody clothes to bed.

“Now that you’re back, I’m leaving. I can finally eat food again, and I want to stuff my face with more than stale candies.” He left the room, book still in hand, sticky finger marking his place between the pages.

Damen did not stir from his slumber during their conversation. He breathed steadily in sleep, no hints of obstruction in his airways, and the swelling in his face was mostly gone. His lip would be bruised slightly, but the color did not show on his dark skin in the same way it would show on Laurent’s ivory complexion.

Laurent’s focus bobbed in exhaustion, and he knew that he would not last upright much longer before sleep overcame him. He could find another bed, maybe take Nicaise’s in the adjoining rooms. But he did not want to leave. He wanted to recover in his own bed, and he wanted to be close to Damen. And he could get both at the same time, by just laying down and falling asleep.

He stretched out on the free side of the bed, on top of the covers, felt the warmth of Damen roaring next to him, and drifted to welcome unconsciousness.

~~~~

It was late, he knew that much, but his entire concept of time was skewed. _Sleeping for eight years does that to a man,_ Auguste reasoned. He could not say whether he spoke with Laurent for minutes or hours, but when his brother started nodding off on the couch, Auguste was happy to send him to bed.

Auguste needed the time, if he was honest with himself. Too much had happened for him to make sense of it cleanly. Laurent had sailed through the explanation in that logical way of his, but Auguste was twisted in it. The whole situation felt like a tangled loom, strands of different realizations crossing and knotting. This was always what Laurent was best at, unraveling and sorting out the tendrils of schema into logical patterns. 

To Auguste, emotions were less complicated, and he understood them immediately. He knew he felt guilty, more than anything; his little brother had weathered atrocities (more than Laurent spoke of, Auguste suspected), and Auguste did nothing to help him. He slept through it all.

He also felt a deep molten blood rage when he pictured even a wisp of his uncle. Something about the portrait Laurent drew of him - it frightened Auguste. The composition gave him a strike of primal fear and he did not know why. Not to mention that the man had taken the throne, and attempted to murder two princes, his own family, to seize it. 

There was the churning bile of betrayal, knowing of Uncle’s treachery. Had he killed father as well? Had he truly made Auguste slip in the duel? Accidents happen in battle, so there was more than enough plausible deniability.

And then, lurking in the back of his mind like a stalking panther, there was Prince Damianos. Auguste physically shook his head to clear his mind of it, hair falling across his features like a curtain. 

Tomorrow, he would think about that. Tonight, he needed to roam and wipe the slate of his mind, so he could write upon it once more.

He made for where he remembered the foyer to be. Auguste had not been to Acquitart for many years before Marlas, but the layout of this castle was much more linear than the palace at Arles, so it was easy to find the grand staircase and descend.

He heard voices before he saw anybody: loud guffawing, slight slurring, the scraping of furniture against stone. The castle entryway was dark except for a single doorway that glowed with firelight, which was the source of the noise. He stepped to the threshold with curiosity.

“Now there’s our Huet!” shouted a gruff and obviously intoxicated voice from across the room, “Finally tipped his spout into Rochert.”

“Huet and Rochert are fucking?” Auguste asked, walking into the room so that the fire illuminated his features.

“Your highness?” slurred the original voice. He had aged, but it was unmistakably Orlant - his crooked nose still looked several times broken. He leaned into a deep bow and lost his balance, falling to his hands and knees. From the floor, he answered, “Yea, they’re fucking.”

“Sloppy bastard,” muttered Jord. All the men had risen to their feet and they assumed their own bows. The room lost most of its joviality, a symptom of royal presence that Auguste always hated.

“Gentlemen,” said Auguste, sitting heavily on a chaise next to Jord, “Relax. As far as anyone outside of this castle knows, I’m dead. You can abandon the deference and give me some wine.”

Orlant remained on the ground, but he shuffled to his rear and cheered. A surprisingly fair man, with red hair in long waves and delicate feminine features, handed Auguste a goblet of wine with a wink.

Auguste took a sip and groaned, “I haven’t had a drink in eight years,”

“Neither have we,” said a man that Auguste remembered from the King’s Guard, Lazar. “Well, most of us,” He turned to the red-haired man. “Ancel came to us slightly later.”

“It’s not as if I was drinking quality wine as a gutter rat,” drawled Ancel, the beautiful man.

“I can’t imagine you being anywhere near a gutter,” said Auguste. 

Ancel pouted prettily, putting on a show like the pets in the court at Arles. “I’ve come far, haven’t I? To flirt with a king,”

“You flirt with everything in sight,” said Lazar, “You’re just lucky that a king stumbled into your path.”

 _King._ Auguste was still not prepared for the abyssal feeling in his gut that opened at the mention of it. He wanted to change the subject. “So you couldn’t eat or drink while bewitched?” he asked.

“Nope,” huffed Orlant from the floor. He took another long gulp of his wine. “I was a fucking stone gargoyle, no stomach, just rocks.”

“I was a dress form,” offered Ancel with a purr.

“Training pell,” said Jord.

“I was a very attractive candelabra.”

“Huet and Rochert were a teapot and a serving trolley, respectively,” said Jord. “And Paschal is here as well, he was cursed to be a wardrobe.”

Auguste drained his cup and refilled it, needing the buffer of alcohol in his system. “You sacrificed much of yourselves here,” he said, aware that it was insufficient gratitude.

“No offense, your highness, but we didn’t have much of a choice,” gurgled Orlant around his rapidly depleting goblet.

“And it wasn’t bad every day,” added Jord. His face had squared off with age, and he wore a full beard, unlike the young man Auguste had recruited to his guard so many years ago.

“I assume that Orlant and Jord were viewed as loyal to the prince’s crown, so that is why my uncle imprisoned you,” said Auguste slowly, “What about the rest of you?”

“Poor luck on my part,” said Lazar. “I was sent here with Rochert and Huet as part of the King’s Guard. I supposed we were expendable enough to leave behind when he cursed the place.”

“And you, Ancel?”

The sensual performative veil over Ancel’s countenance slipped, and he looked bitter. “Pet of the court at Arles, barely. I had just signed my first contract with a courtesan at the palace. Your uncle bought out my contract and sent me here.” 

Ancel took a delicate sip with wine-stained lips that matched his flaming hair. “I was to seduce the prince and break his heart. In return, I was promised enough gold to live a life of my choosing.” He blinked slowly, and his gaze was fiery under his long lashes.

“He got rejected by a lizard,” gruffed Orlant. Ancel reacted with the speed of a mantis and threw a decorative pillow at his head.

Ancel straightened his clothes and redistributed himself gracefully on the chair. “The Prince was unmoved by my charms, so your uncle bewitched me with the rest. I knew too much, and who would miss a gutter rat?” Ancel drained his goblet and filled it again. His pale face was flushed with drink, but even his intoxicated movement was more elegant than most, a sway rather than a stagger.

“All of us would Ancel, don’t be so maudlin,” said Lazar as he patted Ancel’s shoulder.

“Other than rejecting perfectly beautiful men,” said Auguste, causing Ancel to blush with more than intoxication, “How did my brother - manage?”

None of the men answered. They looked at one another with darting eyes, then into their goblets. Auguste waited, not retreating when faced with the silence of the room. It was a proven negotiation tactic that his father taught him long ago.

“Again, your highness, no offense,” started Orlant. He was the drunkest, and therefore, the most bold. “But your brother is a cast-iron bitch.”

Lazar had to hold both hands over his mouth to keep in his laughter. “In what way?” asked Auguste with a straight face. He was slightly miffed for his brother’s honor, but he also remembered several of Laurent’s preteen outbursts, how vicious he could be with words when he wanted. Adult Laurent could likely unleash incalculable damage upon his enemies with a single sentence.

“He hasn’t had much to be hopeful about in a long time,” said Jord carefully. “None of us have. His family betrayed and hurt him, and that would warp anyone. At times, he had to push aside kindness and human decency to achieve his goals.”

“But he’s been better lately,” chimed Ancel. “We owe that to our other resident prince.”

“Prince Damianos? What do you all think of him?”

“He is a good man,” remarked Lazar, with a wolfish grin. “Prince Laurent hated him for so long, but Damen defies all expectation.”

“So I’ve been told,” muttered Auguste. 

The men in the room sniggered and drank from their cups. The conversation returned to lighter territory: who was going to fuck who once they left the castle, who was going to eat what. 

“I offered to suck the cock of everyone here,” declared Lazar, slurring, after too many glasses, “But these bastards refused, so I am going to take my hospitality elsewhere.”

“We’ve all just had enough of your mouth over the years,” replied Jord.

They speculated and imagined while Auguste mostly sat back and drank, definitely too much. But he was feeling camaraderie with his men and a haze from wine, and it was magnificent to hear them speak of their renewed hopes: Jord wanted to see the ocean again, and Orlant wanted to experience one of the famous perfumed bath and massage houses in Arles ( _'I heard that the women massage you with their great big tits,'_ Orlant drunkenly reasoned).

Ancel said he was going to try to open a dress shop, and Auguste immediately offered funding from the royal coffer, much to Ancel’s shock. Lazar loudly proclaimed that he had never bedded an Akielon, but that he wanted to try his hand at it. 

The night dragged on, and eventually, Orlant passed out on the floor, snoring like a rockslide. The rest of the men decided to retire as well, and they all bowed to Auguste as they stumbled from the room. 

It was well past midnight, but Auguste did not want to return to his bedroom, with its tattered furnishings and bloodstained bed. He went to the one place he knew how to find drunk in the dark.

The training grounds were the same as the last time he had been to Acquitart, and Auguste drew a wooden practice sword and immediately went to strike a training dummy.

His body creaked through their usual steps, joints cracking as he went through his catalogue of strikes and parries. He was old, he realized. Not old by human standards, but old by the standards of a soldier. Counting his years, he was thirty-three now. He considered this the tail end of physical prime, and his strange new bodily pains yelled otherwise, that he must be falling apart. The majority of his best years as a swordsman had been slept away.

 _Not that he was helpless._ Auguste threw his entire weight into a strike, letting his inebriated judgment take over, and drove his sword so hard into the pell that the wooden blade splintered into two pieces.

Self-pity was an ugly look for a king. But Auguste was not king yet. He was aging and drunk, fighting ghosts, and even after sleeping for eight years, he felt exhausted. 

He threw the broken wood aside, flopped onto his back in the sawdust, under the dark skylight. The gigantic forest conifers were black monoliths, even darker than the night sky, and they seemed to lean over the castle protectively. 

Auguste blinked slowly, and when he opened his eyes, it was daybreak.

His spine hurt, and his mouth felt as dry as the sawdust under his back. The light that filtered through the canopy was enough to flare a headache behind Auguste’s eyes. He rolled over and stood stiffly, considered the idea of stretching, then made for his chambers to find a change of clothes and a tie for his hair.

His stomach rumbled as he exited the room, washed and changed, hair mostly picked clean of sawdust. The wine was not sitting well on an empty stomach. He thought that the kitchens might have some bread and butter at least.

“Hey!” The voice was like a spike in Auguste’s head, causing his hangover to throb.

A door slammed. “Laurent’s brother! Old man!”

Auguste turned and saw Nicaise following him, dressed in dark blue silk pajamas that had once been Laurent’s. “You do know my name, don’t you?” Auguste asked.

“Yea,” Nicaise grinned in an oddly sinister way, “They’re going to fuck you know.”

“You mean Huet and Rochert?” asked Auguste, continuing his way to the kitchens. “I heard they already did. The men were talking about it last night.” Nicaise sauntered casually beside him with a strangely adult poise that concealed the gawkiness of his teenage limbs.

“No, stupid.” said Nicaise, “Damen and Laurent.”

Auguste stuttered a single step but otherwise did not give this strange boy the satisfaction of a reaction. “Laurent is intelligent enough to make his own choices, as I’m sure you know, Nicaise.”

“Aww, you’re no fun,” pouted Nicaise. “I figured that you might be pissed with the barbarian prince for ramming his cock into your baby brother.”

“Language, Nicaise,” scolded Auguste. His mouth felt hot and his head throbbed, “Did the guard teach you those phrases? Because I can have a talk with them about their conduct.”

“I’m not a child,” snapped Nicaise, “And I know what it feels like to fuck. Ask your uncle.”

Auguste did react to that. He came to halt halfway down the stairs and peered at Nicaise’s cruel satisfaction. 

_Another of Uncle’s castoffs,_ Laurent had called him. _This castle contains quite a collection of wayward boys._

“Nicaise. How did you end up cursed at Acquitart?”

“Your uncle was teaching me magic,” he said, drawing out the final word in a suggestive fashion. “Then I got too old. He only likes to teach young pretty boys.”

Nicaise trod down the stairs and Auguste followed dumbly. There had always been whispers that his uncle’s proclivities were inappropriate, but Aleron’s court never would have allowed for it openly, and Auguste never saw concrete evidence.

But Nicaise, the way he spoke, how he carried himself like a pet. He could not have been more than fourteen, with barely any hairs of stubble.

“Did my uncle hurt you, Nicaise?” 

Nicaise scoffed. “You’re just as bad as Damen with the hero crap.” He tapped his foot at the bottom of the steps and waited for Auguste. “Old man, where were you going anyway?” 

“Kitchen,” muttered Auguste, feeling off-balance and increasingly hungover. “Was going to make eggs. I can only make them yolk up, and they usually break. Do you want some?”

“Sounds horrible,” shrugged Nicaise. “I want mine with bread and butter and jam.”

“You read my mind. Now, tell me, where’s the kitchen?”

~~~~

Damen began to stir, floating on the edges of consciousness. He struggled against the buoyancy of his waking, trying to sink back to the depths, back to a wonderful dream: Laurent, set against the ocean, which perfectly matched the azure of his sparkling eyes. The sea air teased the long silky strands of his hair, rendered them weightless sunbeams, glinting and sparkling in motion. He wore a chiton (a fantasy that Damen’s guilty brain had concocted almost immediately), that exposed more of his thighs than Damen had ever seen. Imagination painted them as smooth and alabaster as the rest of him, with a dusting of soft yellow hair.

His pink lips parted and Damen wanted to kiss them open further.

A door slammed. Damen heard Nicaise shouting at someone down the hall. The dream burst and rushed away, water down a drain. Damen rubbed the heels of his hands over his closed eyes and soreness twinged his limbs. His exhaustion was multipronged: physical tiredness drenched his muscles, combined with soul-deep fatigue that Damen had only encountered after manipulating magical energy.

Despite losing the tendrils of his dream to wakefulness, he was still half-hard with lingering visions of Laurent and wanted to take himself in hand. The sheets were warm over his curved length when he palmed himself, before remembering that he was in Laurent’s bed. That realization did not help to flag his erection. But he could not disrespect Laurent’s space in that way, as much as he might like to come while surrounded by the scent of Laurent on the sheets and the pillows. He dragged his hand away, willed himself to get up, and make for his bedroom, where he could wash and see to his arousal.

Damen cracked opened his bleary eyes, and they widened comically as he spied Laurent, asleep next to him on top of the bedspread.

Laurent was curled on his side and hardly taking up half the bed. His long hair was mussed underneath him and strewn across his back - Damen resisted the urge to untangle the strands with his fingertips, to see if it was as soft as it looked. 

He was missing his jacket but was otherwise still wearing his clothes from the day before. The white Veretian shirt was untucked from his trousers, and the laces sporadically undone, ripped and tugged with haphazard fingers, loosened just enough to relax in sleep. It was also riding up, so a small strip of his lower back was visible above the waistband of his trousers. The skin there was almost as white as his shirt, and Damen wanted to trail his tongue up the length of it.

He glanced lower and had to practically stuff a hand inside his mouth to stifle the fit of laughter that ensued. 

It made sense, really. Damen had never thought about it. What it must be like to wear trousers while possessing a tail.

Laurent had a perfectly round hole, Ancel’s stitchwork by Damen’s eye, sewn into the seat of his pants. Because he no longer had a tail, because his shirt was untucked, the trousers exposed an open window to his round buttocks.

“The bed is shaking.” mumbled Laurent, “Are you laughing or seizing from asphyxiation?” Laurent’s voice was raspy and rough from sleep, but his mind was sharp as a stiletto upon waking. He unfurled from his sleeping position and peered over his shoulder with appraising eyes.

Damen tried to straighten his expression but failed. His response came punctuated with little chortles. “Your hole is showing - I mean the hole in your trousers. Your rear is showing through the hole.”

“Oh,” said Laurent. He turned quickly onto his back with a huff. His cheeks and ears bloomed a lovely pink color. 

The dam broke, and Damen’s deep laughter bubbled out uninhibited. Despite his minor impropriety, a smile played at the corners of Laurent’s pretty pout, and he seemed to deliberately let it wash across his face.

“I suppose I’ll need some new pants,” said Laurent.

“Or you could start a new fashion trend in Vere. Buttock cleavage.”

Laurent buried the side of his face into the pillow, laughing helplessly in his ringing tenor. For the first time, he seemed to Damen like a man in his twenties, rather than an immortal sorcerer of indeterminate age - the weight that usually dominated his countenance was lifted, and he appeared light enough to levitate from the bed.

As his laughter subsided, he peeked up from the pillow. “I’m sorry that my kiss almost killed you.” 

“You did warn me that you were highly venomous. I knew the risks.”

Damen reached towards his face, giving Laurent plenty of room to dodge his touch if he wished, and tucked a length of his silky hair away from his jaw, behind his ear. It was soft as fox fur. Laurent tensed and shivered when Damen stroked the shell of his ear.

“Were you able to speak with your brother?” asked Damen, pulling back, putting a respectable but aching space between them. 

What they were to one another had obviously changed in some way, but Damen could not define it yet. It was usually a given that any partner Damen chose would be receptive to his desires - rejection had never graced his bedroom. He felt young and green again, not knowing how Laurent felt. Damen did not want to overdo it and disturb their easy languishing in bed.

“Yes,” said Laurent, “But I don’t want to talk about him right now.”

“As you wish, your highness,” said Damen with a cheeky grin, “What do you want?”

Damen said it to make Laurent blush, expecting a huff, maybe a prickly bit of banter. In the best-case scenario, Laurent might demand a kiss and a charcuterie board. He did not expect Laurent to rise on his knee from the pillows and the silk sheets, to lean over Damen and start visibly scanning his body, down his chest, down the ridges of his abdomen, so slow and intense that it felt like he was running his fingers across Damen’s skin. It was cataloguing scrutiny, like he was finally permitting himself to really look at Damen, albeit with his reins of control pulled taut.

“I can remove the covers, if you like,” said Damen. His voice spilled out husky, warm as a winter hearth.

“Do it,” sniped Laurent. Damen’s cock twitched under the sheets. It would be fruitless to try and conceal his arousal. No part of Damen’s anatomy was built for subtlety. The sheets brushed his hard nipples as he pulled them away and goosebumps rose along his forearms. 

Damen was wearing only his trousers from the previous day. He had loosened but not completely undone the laces and his erection strained against the slack with undeniable caged friction, just barely still comfortable.

Laurent stared at the imprint of Damen’s twitching cock, taking deep deliberate breaths to mute a more stimulated response. The flush had consumed his pulse points and spilled down his chest, disappearing under the laces of his white shirt. His eyes were as charged and dark as the ocean in a storm’s grasp. 

“I see that you are everywhere in proportion.” His nimble fingers darted out like quicksilver to undo Damen’s laces.

“Laurent,” said Damen, throwing his head back onto the pillow and panting slightly with the effort of holding himself still on the mattress, “Are you sure you -”

“Yes,” interrupted Laurent, “Are you amenable to it?”

Damen shot him a look of disbelief, “I am.”

“Good. Don’t touch me.”

Laurent withdrew the laces to an open V-shape, not putting any pressure on Damen’s cock, but brushing it through the fabric softly with his fingertips, mapping out the changing shape of it. He pulled the laces from the eyelets systemically, exposing the river of coarse hair that trailed down Damen’s stomach, underneath his waistband.

Divested of laces, the fabric parted. Laurent reached in and grabbed him firmly at the base, stroking twice, almost absently, as he appraised the smooth glide with parted pink lips. Damen was indeed of proportionate girth - only Laurent’s long middle finger could meet his thumb when wrapped around the root of Damen’s cock. Clear precome was beading at the head, and Laurent dragged up so slowly to the tip, smeared his thumb around, pressed lightly into the slit. 

Damen gasped and the muscles rippled in his torso. He used every ounce of willpower to keep his hands fisted in the sheets.

“Receptive, aren’t we,” murmured Laurent. Damen’s erection twitched in his hand.

“Because it's you,” said Damen, too honest. He was drunk already on Laurent’s touch; his Akielon mind was not built for restraint, for pretending to be unfazed, for denying attraction or pleasure. Perhaps to twisty Veretian expectations, it would seem too simple: Damen wanted to openly praise Laurent for being alive, for unlocking at least the outer set of gates that encased his heart. For allowing Damen to feel this.

He stroked more leisurely than Damen usually pleasured himself, but it was a compelling argument for delayed gratification. Laurent experimented with different pressures and angles, cataloguing Damen’s gasps and twitches to adjust his technique accordingly. It was so Laurent to proceed this way with intimacy - his analytical mind strived for perfection, in this and everything else. Damen groaned when Laurent squeezed the head on an upstroke and knew that he would not last long under such attentive ministrations.

Laurent’s hand was so soft, brand new skin, empty of calluses or scars, and it dragged along Damen’s foreskin like hot silk, slicked with precome. A spike of pleasure ricocheted up Damen’s spine, tingling at the base of his skull, his control slipped as he thrust the tip of his cock minutely into Laurent’s fist once, twice, where Laurent squeezed. Laurent tisked with the tip of his tongue, then slid his hold down to the base, gripped him firmly. He laid the other hand across the angle of Damen’s hipbone, pressing down, instructing without words that Damen should be still. 

He took mercy on Damen’s patience though, and began a quicker pace, dragging up and down with intense focus, then rubbing around the head, across the ridge, down the underside, flicking his wrist to the rhythm of Damen’s dancing pulse. It was freefall, Damen’s hips ground into Laurent’s hand, a great wave overtaking a ship, the pleasure rising in his belly. 

Damen moaned low and long, and Laurent’s gaze seeped open arousal, unlike any other version of Laurent that Damen had ever seen. Damen wanted to experience every iteration of Laurent, no matter how tender or vicious. His touch made music across Damen’s flesh, swaying in hypnotic rhythm. Damen was thoroughly charmed.

He came like a lightning strike, with a thunderous rumble from deep in his chest that may have contained words. Drops of his spent coated his chest, spurted from the tip, and then dripped down onto Laurent’s fingers. Laurent rubbed the come into the flushed skin of Damen’s cock until he twitched with overstimulation. 

“Adequate,” said Laurent, his breathy voice rough and somewhat awed.

“Kiss me,” panted Damen without reservation. He needed to touch. The muscles across the plane of his torso flexed as he rose to a half-sitting position, reclining towards Laurent like a sunflower to daybreak.

Laurent considered this for a moment. He released Damen’s softening length and touched his hand to his mouth. His pink tongue darted out to taste the milky come, and he sucked a finger for a single second, pressing beyond the bow of his lips. His hollowed cheeks and dilated gaze had Damen’s cock stirring again.

“And now?” Laurent said, a bit defiantly. Tension and analysis pervaded all of Laurent’s actions - even in moments of passion, he proceeded with systemic experimentation, shoving at boundaries for the sake of knowledge. Laurent would test, and Damen did not intend to fail.

“If you think that will stop me,” Damen leaned up, a reversal of their usual heights, and found that he liked Laurent from this angle as well, “Then you have again miscalculated.”

Laurent surged down and kissed him, mouth crooked but eager, and Damen melted in his afterglow. Laurent’s lips were warmer this time, now that he was no longer a reptile, but just as pliant and soft, the texture of spring blossoms in sunlight. The cut and bruising on Damen’s lip twinged as a reminder of the previous day, but it felt reverent to suffer slightly for the pleasure of having Laurent, alive and in his arms, a reminder of all that led to this point. 

Damen felt a sensation like cool seafoam rushing over his face, and the ache subsided.

Laurent pulled away and opened his eyes after a small savoring delay. He looked mischievous and pleased, delightfully tousled. “Better?”

Damen rubbed a thumb along his lower lip and found the skin to be unbroken. “Did you heal my lip with a kiss?”

“Consider it my apology for all the venom.”

With a swift tug, Damen pulled Laurent on top of him. Laurent’s lips parted in surprise, and Damen took full advantage.

“Accepted,” Damen murmured into his mouth. He licked inside, and Laurent’s tongue swirled around his own, exploratory. He felt more than he heard a moan form in Laurent’s throat before it was repressed. 

Damen wanted to free the sound, for Laurent to release it with abandon.

He pulled away to peck at the corner of Laurent’s mouth, then kissed a trail down his jaw to his neck. Laurent huffed a little impatiently, but when Damen laid a soft kiss on the vulnerable hidden hollow under his jawbone, Laurent gasped and grew still. 

Damen rubbed his lips, feather-light, over Laurent’s throat, and he responded in a cat-like way, tilting his neck this way and that to seek out new spots of pleasure. Damen nuzzled his throbbing pulse point, then lapped at it with the flat of his tongue before suckling lightly, not hard enough to leave more than superficial redness.

Laurent tensed and jerked a startled rut into Damen’s lap. The length of him was hard, Damen could feel the heat of it through his straining trousers where their bodies pressed together. 

Damen moaned encouragement against his skin, sighed more than spoke: “Now who’s receptive?”

“Did you think I was made of stone?” said Laurent. Damen sucked on another spot, then soothed it with a long and obscene lick.

“No,” whispered Damen, “Silver, maybe.” He nibbled at the lobe of Laurent’s ear, which silenced any retort. What would have been a whine in a more open partner was a series of subtle gestures in Laurent - the sliding of a muscle in his jaw indicated his arousal above everything else except his rigid cock.

“Attend me,” murmured Laurent, breathless. He sat back on his heels, partially removing his weight from Damen, and presented his bulging laces. His face was flushed like fire, but the stalwart determination in his gaze left no room for argument.

Damen was considerably more clumsy than Laurent, but the laces did part, and Laurent’s cock sprang from the fabric. He had a small upward curve and delicate head, was already so wet from his own precome that his trousers were saturated. A string of it stuck to Damen’s fingers when he swiped across the pink surface, the color of cream topping peach slices.

Laurent shuddered and curled in on himself, upright but shoulders hunched, body reforming around the place where Damen stroked him softly. It did not look comfortable in the long term, so Damen eased him closer, pulled him so he was straddling Damen’s torso. Laurent buried his face into the join of Damen’s neck and shoulder, body a taut curve, breathing in shallow sporadic bursts from his nose. 

Damen stroked slower and was rewarded with an aborted groan, started, then snuffed away. Every tiny slide sent tremors through Laurent, and he rocked his hips in time to Damen’s warm fist. Damen knew he had sword callouses, knew that their roughness on Laurent’s fine skin would be intense, a textured drag. 

Laurent’s rhythm stuttered, and Damen was surprised to realize how close he was. These featherlike touches would have left Damen aching for more, but they were enough to bring Laurent to the edge, to a panting tipping moment.

All his muscles clenched, an overtight bowstring ready to snap. He was hard as crystal in Damen’s hand, leaking enough precome to leave a trail on Damen’s chest, but would not release. He felt Laurent’s jaw working, could almost hear the battle of repression and control playing out in his mind. 

Damen stopped moving, and Laurent sighed.

“I find it difficult,” he spoke with blurred consonants that tickled against Damen’s skin, “To let go.”

Damen gathered Laurent into his arms and kissed him deeply, with as much tenderness as he deserved. 

“Then you hold on to me,” whispered Damen, “and I’ll let go for both of us.”

With careful movements, Damen shifted his large body under Laurent to a more horizontal position, where Laurent straddled his ribcage. With Damen’s neck inclined on stacked pillows, it was the perfect angle to place an open-mouthed kiss to the tip of Laurent’s cock.

Laurent, for all his foresight, had not expected this. He bucked slightly, popping the head into Damen’s mouth for a second, before pulling back. Damen continued to lick at the underside of the head, furling his tongue to cradle it while placing a steadying hand on the base for support.

“I -” sputtered Laurent, “I will not do that - to you.”

Damen pulled off with a satisfied slurp, engrossed in the flavor of Laurent that lingered on his palate, at the back of his tongue. It was almost like the flavor of rice wine, a touch of salty and savory, with a tangy bottom note and a smooth finish.

“Shall I stop?” asked Damen.

“No you don’t -” Laurent scoffed, and the motion made his cock twitch in Damen’s grasp. “Just, I will not suck your cock in return. Do not anticipate reciprocity for your-”

Sensing no real objection in this jargon, Damen rubbed the head of Laurent’s erection across his bottom lip, lapped at the wetness there, then took his heat inside and sucked.

Laurent hissed at the sensation, and his hips twitched in fractional circles. Damen took him deeper, like waves breaking upon a shore, sliding up and then receding without pausing between. Damen sucked Laurent to the base, pressed the head to the back of his throat, and moaned at the sensation of it, the weight of Laurent’s cock in his mouth.

His nose was buried in downy yellow hair, and it smelled of earthy musk mixed with Laurent’s usual acidic scent, like citrus.

Laurent reached down and tentatively ran his fingers through Damen’s curls, then embedded them there, as if to say, _I am holding on._

Damen bobbed his head, and Laurent thrust inside, finding his pleasure, sliding his length across Damen’s tongue. They established a rhythm, Damen discovering that Laurent liked to be deep within, cock pressing towards the tightest heat available. 

Laurent was losing himself, Damen noted with a satisfied shudder of his own. Laurent held his head steady and fucked his mouth, leaving Damen to lick and suck with abandon and to grab his own cock and stroke himself to the pace of their joining.

Neither would last another minute - Damen predicted it in Laurent by the tension in his thighs, the way he pulled Damen’s hair, just on the pleasurable side of pain, as he humped at Damen’s mouth.

“Do you - where - I’m -” stuttered Laurent, though Damen’s mouth was too occupied to respond. He sucked with all the breath in his lungs, giving Laurent’s shaft as much friction as he could manage.

Hot stripes of liquid shot down his throat and Laurent released a high pitched whine for a fraction of a second. That sound was enough to take Damen over the edge, and he moaned his own ecstasy around Laurent’s cock, the vibrations of it coming out muffled and wet and sticky.

Laurent spurted at least four times, gushing his juices across Damen’s tongue, and Damen swallowed it all, would have gulped it, and tongued his length with mindless abandon until Laurent pulled out with an obscene pop.

His expression was shattered, and his chest heaved when he gazed down at Damen, who was openly adoring him.

“Adequate,” said Damen, as he licked his lips with a patented cheeky grin.

“You’ve been waiting to say that,” Laurent groaned as he flopped to the bed. He threw an arm over his face, and Damen gave him the moment of privacy, took the opportunity to wipe away his drying come on the sheets, and tuck himself back into his trousers.

“I’ve never done that,” said Laurent, as he peered at Damen from under his golden lashes.

“Are you -” started Damen, not wanting to offend.

“No.” Laurent said softly, “But not experienced.”

Damen shrugged. “I probably have enough experience to fill in your gaps.”

“My gaps," drawled Laurent with his wet, bitten lips. "And what else do you seek to fill, Damianos?” 

_The spaces where trauma has eroded your heart._ “Anything you’ll give me. Even if it’s just a water pitcher.”

Laurent's flush had been receding, but it rushed back in full force. “I don’t know how you say such things without combusting - But, since you offered,” he pointed at a side table where a silver fat-bellied pitcher stood alongside two cups.

“And some fruit. Maybe cheese.”

“Right away, your highness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of my favorite books ever is called Cunt Norton, by Dodie Bellamy
> 
> its a collection of sex scene vignettes, written to mimic the voices of various famous authors throughout history, from chaucerian english all the way up through contempory authors - its a menagerie of queer and straight, genital havers of all kinds, samples for whatever sex scene you might be writing, from any era of english-language written history basically.
> 
> not only is it an incredibly horny read, but its an amazing reference for writing erotica, i can't recommend it enough.


	8. Damianos & Nikandros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damianos & Nikandros POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! this chapter is finished and i struggled with it - this is a transition chapter where the back half of the plot kicks in, and the story gets a little wider. i had a hard time managing like continuity errors and trying not to write myself into a corner. the result is fine though - there are some nice moments and most importantly, it keeps the story moving. i hope you enjoy, thanks for sticking with it ♡

Damen strolled to the kitchens like an old Akielon god cloudstepping on winged sandals. Perhaps it was the result of breaking the curse, or maybe just Damen’s afterglow-tinted perception, but the entire castle seemed brighter, as if free of a dark and consuming miasma. Even the dust motes swirled more merrily in the morning sunbeams. The guard was not yet roused, though a faint congested snore emanated steadily from the direction of the parlor.

The overwrought dining room was as claustrophobic as ever, but today, Damen minded less - he did not scoff once at the florid wall decor or recollect his treacherous dinner with Laurent the beast. All of that felt long ago, it was before. In the after, Damen stepped towards the kitchen door, which was cleverly hidden in a gilded wall panel, and wondered whether Laurent would prefer apricots or oranges.

 _Either one,_ Damen reasoned, _will make his mouth taste sweet._

His savoring was interrupted when he noticed a faint haze leaking from around the doorframe. Damen’s first suspicion was magic, perhaps a hex upon the threshold, because this was Acquitart. However, the telltale scent of bitter aridity pointed to a more mundane problem: smoke, from a cooking fire.

Damen heard voices shouting beyond the wall. He drew as much clean air into his lungs as possible, crushed the latch, and threw the door open, bracing for licking flames.

“You _never_ pour water on a grease fire! I once saw a grease fire catch and burn down the tents of an entire camped battalion - it spreads so much faster than you can imagine.”

Prince Auguste stood in the middle of the kitchen, clenching a lid tightly to a cast-iron skillet at arm's length. He wore a pair of goldenrod yellow cooking mittens to repel the heat of the pan, and they bore fresh scorch marks.

“You’re the one that started it! You forgot the pan on the heat!”

Behind Auguste, Nicaise bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet, clutching an empty water goblet and looking nervous. On the kitchen table, two plates of half-eaten eggs and toast had been abandoned in a hurry, along with several jars of jam, a flat dish of butter, and a pitcher with another goblet of water.

“We were both distracted by the marmalades,” said an exasperated Auguste.

Damen lost his held breath and coughed, eyes burning. He was tall enough for his head to be directly within the cloud of smoke, and he had to wave his arms to clear it. Auguste and Nicaise whipped around to stare at him, comically in-sync.

“Prince Damianos -” Auguste sputtered. He straightened his posture slightly. “Good morning,” he said, switching to lilting Akielon for the greeting.

Damen had not heard a single word of Akielon from any mouth but his own in six months. He was shocked at the civility of the gesture; Laurent, for all of his good points, had never been so generous. But this was the same Auguste who wished good luck to Damianos, his bitter enemy, before their duel to the death. The same man whom Laurent regarded with his rare admiration.

“Good morning Prince Auguste, Nicaise,” returned Damen warmly, in Akielon. He switched to his Veretian, a mirror to Auguste’s gesture, “Is everything alright?”

Nicaise relaxed from his tense panic and made a show of returning to his eggs - he plopped in his seat and scooted close to the table, purposely screeching the chair legs against the stone floor. Auguste tipped the lid open to peek inside the pan. When no fire erupted from the opening, he set the skillet gently on the counter, away from the stove. He glanced at Damen and removed his mittens awkwardly.

“I started a fire,” he said, clearing his throat.

“I’ve done that,” remarked Damen with a shrug, “Burned my eyebrows off once.”

Auguste barked a short laugh, staring at Damen’s brow and obviously picturing it. He shook his head, then turned to reclaim his plate next to Nicaise at the table, sitting in the chair with a straight, noble posture.

“So you admit it,” mocked Nicaise loudly, and Auguste elbowed him in the ribs.

Damen proceeded to the larder, not wanting to intrude further upon their already-interrupted breakfast. He first rooted around the cool low shelves for several oranges and apricots, deciding to take both. There were middle shelves of cheeses coated in wax, which lent the larder a particular (unpleasant) odor. Damen’s senses could not handle the more pungent Veretian delicacies, so he selected three that smelled fairly inoffensive - two hard cheese wedges and a soft round. Damen found a wicker basket hanging from a hook on the back wall, so he dumped the food into it, then added two baguettes, likely stale, and a generous portion of butter wrapped in wax paper.

Damen backed out of the larder and latched the door, feeling two sets of eyes studying him.

“Are you taking Laurent on a breakfast picnic?” asked Nicaise, sniggering.

Damen turned and tried to employ a statesmanlike countenance, as much as possible while being a rather large man holding a small woven basket. “No - he’s just exhausted and wanted breakfast.” Damen shrugged nonchalantly, “And I don’t trust myself to prepare a cheese board. So - basket.”

“Wore him out, huh?” said Nicaise, like an imp. Damen flinched. Auguste took a long drink of water and appraised Damen with cool, imperceptible eyes - this seemed to be a family resemblance, as Laurent had stared at him the same way many times before.

“So he did actually sleep with you?” continued Nicaise gleefully, eyeing Damen head to toe, “And now he can’t walk?”

“No -” blurted Damen, feeling his face grow hot. He had always been so obvious when lying, and this was not even a full untruth. The handle of the basket creaked in his suddenly tense grip. “That’s not what -”

“I’m sure he is very tired,” reasoned Auguste with a steady tone, poking at his eggs, “I know I am, after yesterday.” He met Damen’s slightly guilty gaze and inclined his head in a regal manner, diplomatic, crisp as a spring morning. “It is kind of you to indulge the whims of my brother.”

“He saved all of us,” replied Damen, reverent and sincere. “Breakfast is the least I can do for him.”

Auguste furrowed his eyebrows as if his thoughts were rearranging. Damen thought he might ask a question, but instead, he glanced sideways and filched Nicaise’s last piece of bread, smothered in orange marmalade. “Hey!” said Nicaise, smacking Auguste, who stuffed his mouth and chewed deliberately.

It was disconcerting for Damen, after all this time, to see Auguste as a person - eating breakfast, teasing, acting familial. For years, he had haunted Damen’s memories and dreams as the immortal golden ghost, a warrior on a bloody field. The reality of him, outside of half-remembered impressions, made Damen’s chest pang.

He cleared his throat, catching Auguste and Nicaise’s attention. “Please excuse me, I should take this to Prince Laurent.”

Auguste nodded and waved, his mouth still full. Nicaise smirked and made a stabbing motion at Damen with his fork.

As the door closed behind him, Damen heard Auguste speculate: “I wonder how menacing you would be with a bread knife.”

~~~~

“Prince Damianos, a letter for you,” called Arnoul, when Damen appeared from the dining room. He still looked rather boar-like as a man, sturdy and hoary, slightly overweight but with underlying musculature that would surprise anyone who underestimated him. His breath as a man was, however, sour.

“Thank you,’ said Damen, placing the folded correspondence in the basket, on top of the cheese. Arnoul bowed, then returned to relaxed attention by the main doors. Damen ascended the stairs two at a time.

Laurent sat at the table by the window in his sitting room, writing on a piece of parchment with his distinctive looping script. He was dressed fully, to Damen’s slight disappointment, in a high-necked jacket of deep cobalt. It was embroidered in tiny flourishes with fine yellow thread, like little stars against the abyss of the night sky. The jacket was short enough in the back for Damen to see that Laurent had indeed located a new pair of pants without a hole in the seat.

His laces were tied tight at the throat and the wrists - the only places exposed on his body were his face and hands. Damen thought about the delicate places on Laurent’s neck, hidden by the tight collar, so sensitive to stimulation. How his flawless skin was probably still red where Damen sucked it.

His pale hair was free of tangles, braided neatly, and it flowed over one shoulder, tied at the end with a dark silk ribbon. For a man who had whined and spilled down Damen’s throat less than an hour before, he was immaculately put together.

Damen placed the basket down on the table in front of him, and Laurent made a show of looking up, then appearing puzzled. “Are we going on a picnic?”

Damen sat across from Laurent and nudged his foot under the table. The slight contact still felt daring. “Your wit must be affecting Nicaise - he said the same thing. He and your brother also started a fire in the kitchen.”

“His wit was like that before me, I assure you.” Laurent set aside his quill and parchment, then selected an orange. He picked at the peel with his thumbnail. “I can’t believe Auguste was trying to cook at all.” He paused when his eyes caught the letter in the basket.

“Nikandros?” he asked.

“Who else?” Damen took the note and unfolded it carefully. He expected a few paragraphs, or a list, as was Nik’s usual habit. But there was no greeting, nothing unessential. Just a rather scribbling scrawl from Nik’s hand:

_Bad tidings. Return immediately. I can’t tell you this in a letter._

The pit of Damen’s stomach fell away with sudden nausea, like ground crumbling beneath unsteady feet. This was a frighteningly uncharacteristic message from Nikandros, just as his original message about Tarasis had been. He pressed the note flat to the table as if his hands were heated irons, and then lifted it close, eyes scanning that one line over and over. His mind raced on beyond the text, concocting a myriad of vicious scenarios that could have caused this letter: _Another massacre? A death - Father - Kastor? War from the east, or the north? An invasion from Vere?_

“What is it?” asked Laurent. Damen’s fingers clutched at the edges of the letter so hard that the material had begun to tear.

“Give it here,” he said. Laurent gently pinched the top of the message, then ripped it from Damen’s gasp. Damen let him take it. He seemed surprised by the short contents and scanned it several times over in just a few seconds.

“I can equip you to leave now, if you wish,” said Laurent, looking up. He was suddenly businesslike, all traces of familiarity had fallen away. “It is not an insignificant distance to travel without a horse, but you can make it back to Akielos in a few hours by foot.”

Back to Akielos. It was what Damen wanted. What he was supposed to want. Some catastrophe prompted Nikandros to write, and Damianos had inherited the duty to respond to it.

He recalled the phantom slashes of claws in his back, felt as though they ripped straight through to his chest. He had not thought twice about leaving back then, had run from the castle with fire in his veins. But then he carried Laurent’s unconscious body from the cold and everything shifted between them, towards tenderness.

He had become attached, mercilessly. Damen was strung between competing obligations: for Akielos, for his people, the obligation and honor of his bloodline. Or for the selfish pangs of his heart, for Laurent.

They were enemy princes of enemy nations, with fratricide, a deadly kiss, enslavement, and a single dawn of pleasure between them. Reality as usual would never have allowed this; they occupied a temporary moment, one that would be burst when they both claimed their birthrights once more. Damen wanted selfishly to freeze the flow of time.

“You look miserable,” noted Laurent, and Damen could only nod.

“I’m not fond of that look on your face,” he said. “Not anymore.” They locked eyes, and the gears of Laurent’s mental machinations were whirling.

“Delay your departure by a few hours,” declared Laurent. “We can scry Nikandros right now, in the tower, and you can find out the purpose for his message. It is early morning still - if you leave by midday, you can still arrive in Tarasis before nightfall.”

Damen would have agreed to much more unsavory things, just to be with Laurent for another few hours. He nodded.

~~~~

“Pallas, I need a set of orders delivered.”

“Yes, commander.” His chest puffed slightly. Pallas was exceptionally competent among the men, a protege officer, perhaps a future general. His eagerness was imperfectly hidden, and quite obvious when compared to the morning grumbles of the other soldiers in the barracks.

“Install five additional men on the north watchtower. I need eyes on the forest at all times. Any sight of movement, all signals raised.”

Pallas nodded. “Should I tell them to expect combat?”

Nikandros shook his head slowly, debating how much to reveal. “Not likely, just movement. I need to be alerted immediately if - “

 _Nikandros, Kyros of Delpha._ The voice was lilting. Veretian. It resonated in his mind.

Nikandros trailed off mid-sentence and glanced around wide-eyed.

“Kyros?” asked Pallas. He peered around as well, soldier’s eyes scanning for threat, but found nothing out of the ordinary. “Is something the matter?”

Nikandros shook his head, “No, just - if you could alert the -”

 _Nik. Nikandros._ This voice was different than the first, deep and rumbling and familiar.

Damianos.

“Just go tell them,” snapped Nikandros in a rush. Pallas scrunched his brow in a mask of confusion but nonetheless spun on his heels to complete the order. Nikandros barreled to his chambers like an ox, looking as intimidating as possible to divert any incoming requests.

_Nikandros - can you hear me?_

“Damen?” Nikandros hissed. He closed and locked his door behind him, thankful that his current bed slave, Pheodora, was elsewhere, taking her morning meal. He pressed his back against the wall and rubbed his temples roughly with the pads of his fingers. “Are you here somehow, or am I finally going mad?”

The two voices spoke at the same time, both in Akielon, one with a strong accent: _I’m here!_ \- _Not mad yet._

 _Not there physically,_ Damen corrected. _We are using magic to reach you._

“So I am speaking to the beast as well?” Nikandros asked, tone harsh.

If Berenger’s theory was correct, the master of Acquitart was the lost youngest prince of Vere, presumed dead. In his time imprisoned, Nikandros saw nothing royal in that cruel caricature of a man, nothing indicating his ability to rule with justness or compassion. If he was a prince, it was a waste of a bloodline on a treacherous beast.

 _Yes, bitch here,_ said the beast, pronouncing the Akielon curse fastidiously, as if he pinched it between forefinger and thumb. Nikandros’s distaste was solidified with one swipe of that sardonic tone. _If you can find a basin with water, or even a cup, then you will be able to see us as we see you._

Nikandros wanted to snap at the beast for asking him to do anything, but his desire to see Damen won out. He hurried to a stone washing basin, which still held water from his morning cleanse. By now, the water had cooled, but it was still clear to the bottom and not yet clouded with dirt.

 _If you’ve managed to find something,_ said the beast, _Imagine Damianos in your mind - his image should appear in the water._

Nikandros squeezed his eyes shut, remembered Damen as he had last seen him - enslaved through his self-sacrificing nature, with a hideous beast at his back.

When Nikandros opened his eyes, the face of his dearest friend was shimmering in the water.

“You -” Nikandros said in awe, clutching the sides of the basin, leaning close to the water. “It’s you.”

Damen stared back with that huge grin of his, looking clear and real as if he was on the other side of a window. Nikandros caught a shock of blonde at the edge of the image, just out of sight, and assumed it to be the beast’s feathers.

“Hello old friend,” said Damen. “I’ve missed you. Your beard is longer.”

“I’ve been letting it grow,” mumbled Nikandros. “Why didn’t you do this sooner?”

“The curse prevented any scrying outside of the bounds of the castle,” said the beast, just out of frame.

Damen glanced to his side and smiled more fondly than Nikandros anticipated. “But we broke the curse yesterday. When I received your correspondence, the - former beast, he offered to connect us for a conversation, with magic.”

“What kindness,” said Nikandros.

“I am full of surprises,” said the beast.

Nikandros scoffed, not wanting to talk to his petulant former captor any longer. He returned his attention to Damen, whose face had become worried and drawn.

“Will you be returning soon?” asked Nikandros.

“Yes, immediately,” he said, his expression hard. “I know this method is not wholly adequate, not the same as being there with you, but I can’t wait, I need to know now. Forgive my impatience, but what happened?”

The words fell like acid from Nikandros’s tongue. “Damen. Your father has died.”

He saw Damen reel back as if hit with a blow. A human hand with long fingers snaked from the edge of the image and rested on his shoulder. Nikandros was surprised and slightly nauseated to see that the beast was human after all.

“Dead?” whispered Damen, more breath than voice.

It surged from Nikandros like water from the rupture of a dam - he wanted to tell Damen everything all at once. “I’m so sorry, my brother. It was months ago. Our messengers never got through. Several were ambushed and slain on the road as if communication was deliberately cut off. I just received word last night.”

“How?” In the one syllable, his voice shook.

“A flu that would not leave his lungs,” said Nikandros softly.

Damen’s mouth hung agape, and no words came out of it. After seconds of silence, it was the beast who finally inquired: “What about Kastor?”

“Kastor has laid claim to the throne because Damianos is assumed dead.” Nikandros spat, hoping that the beast felt some wrath from it. The white fingers tightened on Damen’s shoulder. “He is to be crowned at the Kingsmeet on the equinox.”

“There’s time then.” Damen sounded hollow. “I can return and appeal to Kastor.”

“Damen.” Nikandros took a deep breath to calm his nerves. It would not be that easy. “News did not reach further north than Sicyon. Not even Makedon’s spies were getting through. Someone is manipulating this situation, and they do not want you on the throne.”

The image in the water flickered out for a moment, and when it returned, he saw Damen’s features written with despair. Nikandros wanted to reach into the water and clap a hand to his shoulder, to offer him the support he needed to weather this. The beast’s hand was there instead, pale and spindly.

“I should have waited,” Damen mumbled, “I can’t do it like this. I’m sorry Nik, I’ll see you soon.”

The image vanished suddenly, and all Nikandros could see was the bottom of the basin.

“Damianos?” called Nikandros frantically, trying to picture him again and reconjure the image.

 _He will be in Tarasis before nightfall,_ came a crisp response from within Nikandros’s mind, courtesy the beast. Nikandros felt a severing and knew his connection was broken.

He cursed and slapped at the water like a frustrated child, sending droplets across the washroom. His face felt hot, so he cupped his hands and let the water pour in rivulets across his brow and down his beard.

This was all the fault of that hideous monster, now hiding under the pale skin of a man. Without the beast's violent meddling, Damen would be leading in Akielos, would have been at his father's side as Theomedes slipped away. Instead, he was a king relegated to the position of a slave.

Nikandros felt sick.

However, if he trusted anything, it was Damen’s word. Damen said that he would be in Akielos soon, before days end, away from Vere and its grotesque magic. Nikandros could trust in that, at least.

In the meantime, Nikandros understood his duty: prepare Tarasis for the return of the rightful king.

~~~~

Damen’s mood was black.

Laurent had looked paler than usual when he sent Damen away from the tower, told him to take some moments alone to process, said that he would make all the preparations for Damen’s departure, at noon.

Damen had retreated to the one place where he could give his sorrow physical expression.

He wielded the heaviest sword in the training area, swung it over and over, hacking at a training dummy until the stitches popped, until the pell leaked straw guts. Sweat poured into his eyes, and he wiped it away with the puffy sleeves of his Veretian shirt.

It was constricting to fight in Akielon style while wearing Veretian garb. Aside from being precise and deadly, Damen now understood an alternate purpose for the intricate swordwork of Vere: it could be performed close to the body, while laced tight, unlike the broad slashing blows that characterized the bare-shouldered Akielon style. Damen felt like a pretender in his own body. In a fit of frustration, he tore open both underarm seams of the shirt, then ripped the front, which had never closed properly anyway, open to his navel. He descended upon the next pell with an unconstrained deathblow.

With a free range of motion, he could throw the full arc of his arm behind every strike. This was true Akielon fighting, brutal and unrepentant. Any adversary foolish enough to cross blades had preordained their own demise - Damianos was merely the executioner of that destiny. The sinews of his muscles strained with the exertion of it, his chest opened wide and flared with pulsing waves of victory, with the confidence of a practiced killer.

No one could best him in this mood. No one could even offer him a challenge when his mind was attuned to war. Damen landed a blow that snapped his current training pell in two, sending the top half flying across the arena. The splintered base quivered on the sawdust, like a dying man. Damen lowered his sword. The space was silent, save for the harsh draws of Damen’s breathing.

“The years haven’t dulled your skills.”

Auguste stood in the arched doorway, arms crossed. Damen did not know how long he had been there, observing. Memories rose in Damen’s throat like bile. He slammed the tip of his blade into the sawdust and let go of the hilt.

“Looks like you’ve gotten even stronger.”

Damen nodded, stood with his head high, shoulders back. There was no reason to deny his prowess when the evidence had just been so thoroughly on display.

“A warrior of your caliber would prefer to spar with a partner, no?” said Auguste. He stepped onto the sawdust but remained a good distance away from Damen.

“There’s no one -” said Damen, unable to restrain his unabashed honesty, “who could turn my swordwork back.”

Damen did not expect Auguste to smile, gently.

“Don’t be so sure of that. I seem to remember turning your sword right out of your hand,” said Auguste. “I remember it like it was yesterday.”

“It was, to you,” replied Damen.

Auguste meandered to the rack of swords that hung from the wall. He selected a bare blunted blade, tested its weight and balance with precise flicks of his wrists.

“Laurent said that my uncle interfered with our duel,” continued Auguste, as if Damen had not spoken. His attitude was irritatingly cavalier. “Surely, this should twinge your Akielon sense of fair play.”

“It does,” said Damen.

Auguste’s tone was perfectly level, friendly even, without a trace of condescension or mocking. But Damen felt the intent radiating from him - he wanted to antagonize. This was a different Auguste than the man in the kitchen, wearing yellow mittens and teasing Nicaise. In the arena, Damen faced the Starburst Prince of Vere, a golden reaper around whom waves of trained soldiers broke and died.

Damen had years of introspection about Marlas behind him. Even before meeting Laurent, he was uneasy about the devastation that Akielon bloodlust had wrought in Delpha, the thousands of casualties of Akielons and Veretians both over a point of pride, contested ownership over territory. He had even wondered, treasonously - what right does a nation have to rule if it does not have the allegiance of the people, or if it causes overt destruction?

“Shall we continue where we left off? If you’ve forgotten in your waking years, I can offer a reminder.” Auguste slashed, almost faster than the eye could behold, into thin air. The momentum of his blade cutting through the empty space sounded like a hiss.

“Prince Auguste, I - yield,” said Damen haltingly, voice wreathed in bitterness. His sword still jutted from the sawdust. Auguste would not strike an unarmed man. It would prickle, but Damen could set aside his pride and allow Auguste to claim satisfaction without ever raising his sword.

Damen fought at Marlas for his father, to prove the vitality of his bloodline and demonstrate that he was a warrior worthy of the Akielon succession. But his father was now dead, and with him, any boons given by his praise. Akielos was again on the brink of war and Kastor claimed the throne - Damianos was pronounced just as dead as Auguste. The noble illusion of winning the duel had gained him nothing, ultimately, and more battle would not change that.

Auguste and Damianos were not two men at Marlas, but pawns of kingdoms and their games. Both of the players, Aleron and Theomedes, were now dead, yet the pawns still stood on the board, bristling. Damen recalled the specific thrust that he used to fell Auguste, a wet cleave into flesh, a falling starburst on a field that would break Laurent’s heart. Damen tasted blood. He realized that he was gnashing and shredding the skin on the inside of his mouth.

“You don’t yield,” said Auguste, matter-of-fact.

Damen tensed, and his magnanimous high road started to crumble.

“I saw it on the field that day when you slaughtered my guard single-handedly. I saw it when I disarmed you. I see it in you now.”

“I killed you,” said Damen roughly. “It’s over.”

“And yet I live,” argued Auguste, infuriatingly logical and calm, as if he was correcting a false assumption about the weather. He circled Damen slowly, like an eagle tracking a field rabbit from far above. “If you had finished it, I wouldn’t be here. Was Marlas for nothing?”

The heat roiled in Damen’s muscles, coalescing into a twitching desire to strike out with steel. Though they employed different styles, both princes of Vere seemed adept at breaching the mental guards of their opponents - Damen was aware that it was intentional, this riling, that he should not rise to the provocation.

“Thousands died at Marlas - it dishonors them to call it nothing.”

“How many by your hand?” asked Auguste.

“How many by yours?” Damen countered, mood snapping like a tree beneath an avalanche.

Damen moved into a more coiled fighting stance, positioning his limbs to react at a moment’s notice. The corner of Auguste’s mouth quirked into a mix between pleasure and a snarl - Damianos was taking the bait, whether he wanted to or not. Auguste flicked his eyes to the blunted sword, where it was stuck into the sawdust, indicating what Damen’s next move should be. One twitch and the Prince-Killer could have steel in hand.

Auguste stopped, stood stock still, slowly rotated his blade into the first position of a dynamic strike, pointed it at Damen with calculating eyes.

“Whichever of us is dragged to the underworld can take a tally.”

Auguste crossed the distance to Damen in an eye blink, barely giving him time to wrench his sword up to block the blow. Bits of sawdust flew up into the air and floated between them. As quick as light, Auguste backed off, then struck again, from another angle, strategically testing Damen’s guard with exquisitely precise clashes of metal. Damen blocked but did not return strikes, even gave a few steps of ground.

“Where is the soldier from a few minutes ago? A kitten could stay this blade,” Auguste thrust the tip of his sword and Damen barely dodged, felt the wind from the proximity of the strike. Damen snarled at the near miss and shifted his momentum forward to counter with brutality.

Their swords collided like charging rams, and the metal screeched down to the tang. Both men held, and held, blades clattering, riding waves of aggression that threatened to break them both to pieces. It was Auguste’s shuddering arm that gave first, but he pivoted the weakness into a parry that diverted Damen’s sword wide, and stepped back again, disengaging. A light sheen of sweat pricked at his brow, and strands of his hair had fallen loose from the tie at the nape of his neck.

“There’s the warrior I remember.”

The flashing steel drew Damen in, and he lost sight of Auguste’s face in the midst of it, falling further into himself, into action and reaction, into the art of slaughter. Damen swung full out in Akielon style, matching Auguste blow for blow, causing the arena to ring in a cacophony. Auguste was panting now, his cool composure unraveling with the flush on his face and the heavy rise and fall of his breathing.

“By the way,” said Auguste, voice hard from exertion. He reared back to line up a sharp foin, then at the last second, feinted left to loop under Damen’s guard. He drove the hilt of his sword into Damen’s ribs. Damen staggered and barely caught Auguste’s blade with his own as it careened towards his neck. It was a weak angle for him to block, twisted and without leverage, so Damen was not able to throw Auguste back immediately.

They glared at one another in a hateful stalemate.

“I’m pissed about you and my brother.”

Damen gritted his teeth and shoved Auguste away, did not allow him time to recover before he brought down the full weight of his sword - even with a dulled blade, it bore enough force to cleave Auguste in two from the neck down. Auguste had to block two-handed, and Damen saw his broad shoulders straining beneath his shirt to hold it.

“Nothing that he didn’t want,” growled Damen.

Before his arms gave out, Auguste flipped their positions in a hairsplitting parry, slicing down on Damen’s sword and drawing him close for a stiletto thrust. But Damen had seen this one before, had drilled it with Berenger for countless hours, and he knew the counter for it. A small flick of his blade, when Auguste expected a broader Akielon slash, changed the balance of their duel. Damen rotated his blade with fine wrist motions and wrenched the sword from Auguste’s grasp.

Without hesitation, Auguste reared back and punched Damen in the face.

Black spots bloomed across his vision, and he stumbled. This gave Auguste enough time to retrieve his sword from the ground and launch himself at Damen with killing speed.

A ringing clash, a shudder. Damen leveraged a Veretian counter-riposte into a shove with force enough to throw Auguste onto his back in the sawdust. He landed hard, and Damen was on him immediately, gripping his sword wrist so tightly that Auguste yelled in frustration and released the blade once more.

Damen adjusted the hold, taking Auguste in an Akielon wrestler's pinning stance - now that their swords were withdrawn, Damen could ensure that there would be no death in this duel, only subjugation. Auguste thrashed impotently against the hold, straining against the lock, and just when Damen expected him to yield or pass out, he found an opening: in the brutal style of wrestling popular in northern Akielos, Auguste initiated a reversal, which flipped Damen onto his back.

Damen’s muscle memory reacted faster than his dazed mind, and he tensed, refusing to be manipulated into a full takedown. He rolled quickly to lock arms with Auguste. The two men shuddered in a deadlock - Damen’s muscles were screaming already from his training, and the duel had forced the use of his full strength and speed. Even so, Damen was undefeated in the sport of wrestling; their matchup was like the contest of an elite warrior against a mountain. Damen knew how to press until his opponent became jelly beneath him, how to weather the last vicious throes of the loser.

Auguste’s hold shattered and broke, and Damen gripped him in a headlock, wary of another physical blow, like the punch.

“Where did you learn Akielon wrestling?” panted Damen, when he was sure that no more fists could be thrown.

His arm was wrapped around Auguste’s throat, and the pressure of bicep on windpipe caused Auguste to sputter and cough. Auguste tapped Damen’s forearm with two fingers, and Damen relaxed his grip.

“Where did you learn Veretian counters?” he gasped. Auguste drew in a deep shuddering breath. “I yield, Damianos.”

Damen immediately released him and put half an arena’s distance between them. Auguste rubbed at his neck, which was red from the hold.

“I can’t match you,” said Auguste, oddly airy. “The fates made the correct judgment at Marlas.”

“No they didn’t,” said Damen. Auguste looked up at him with wide and surprised eyes. “The best outcome would have been no fighting at all.”

Auguste hummed thoughtfully. He rose and brushed the sawdust from himself. Damen tensed when he retrieved his sword, but he simply returned it to the storage rack, then sat on a bench by the wall, catching his breath.

“Sorry to have antagonized you,” he said. “That type of behavior is beneath my station.”

Damen returned his sword as well and sat on the other end of the bench from Auguste.

“I’m inclined to say that my intentions were noble,” he continued, “That I wanted to see what kind of man you were. Whether you were just a hot-tempered barbarian, as I was always made to believe.”

“Things did get rather heated,” said Damen.

“By my design, I assure you,” remarked Auguste. He put a hand to his shoulder and rotated the sore joint in the socket. “But that’s not the whole story, in truth. I was also angry with you. That’s what the punch was for. I apologize.”

“As do I,” said Damen. “For any bruises I caused, and for - everything else,” he ended lamely.

Auguste nodded, and Damen knew he understood. “I’ve never met an Akielon who shirks war, or seeks a resolution without combat,” remarked Auguste. “But, then again, I haven’t known many Akielons.”

“War has not been a benefit to my people in the way I anticipated.”

“Nor, apparently, has it been a benefit to mine,” said Auguste.

The two men were silent for a while, slowing their breathing, but the pause held no tension.

“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” said Auguste quietly. “That must sound disingenuous coming from my mouth, but I’ve also just learned of my father’s death. It hurts.”

Damen had been so focused on Laurent that he had not considered Auguste at all - the hollow emptiness he must be feeling, the blank spaces of people he missed, and the years of life he was supposed to have lived.

“It does,” said Damen simply.

Auguste leaned his head back against the wall, peered up at the skylight. The vivid blue that peaked through the treetops seemed mirrored in his eyes.

“Though it is new to me,” he said, “My father is long buried. I have been thinking - that his resentments should be as well.” Auguste straightened and looked at Damen seriously.

“You have been honorable, Damianos, much more than I expected from an enemy. If we are truly set to inherit our nations, I would be a fool not to make peace with you now.”

Auguste extended his hand, as if it was that simple. Maybe it was. Damen had never known a Veretian to endorse the uncomplicated route. Damen stared at Auguste’s hand for a moment that felt massive and infinitesimal all at once.

He clasped it with a paradigm-shattering concession.

Auguste squeezed and released, looking relieved, as if a weight was lifted from his countenance. He raised his arms above his head and stretched.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” he remarked. “Besides, Laurent vouched for you. I can’t be cross any longer, or he’ll scold me.”

“He did?” Damen smiled, then looked quickly at the ground.

“He did.” Auguste raised his hand in a staying gesture. “It’s none of my business either. Like I said, I was out-of-line during our duel.”

Auguste sighed and hung his head. “I just haven’t gotten used to it yet. In my mind, Laurent is still thirteen. I would have beheaded any grown man who tried to seduce him at that age.”

“Rightfully so. Men who prey on boys are best as food for worms.”

Just then, Laurent burst into the training area. He had obviously been sprinting, and his chest rose and fell unevenly under his tight laces. When he caught sight of Damen and Auguste, free from blood or injuries and relaxing on a bench in seeming camaraderie, he slowed. Tension thrummed in traceable cords through his stance.

“Jord said that you were fighting,” said Laurent awkwardly. He eyed Auguste, specifically. “I told you to look in on him, not kill him.”

Damen chuckled because Laurent sounded so much like a little brother, righteously chiding his sibling. Another version of Laurent that he was allowed to witness.

“It was a friendly spar, nothing more,” said Auguste breezily.

“Right,” said Damen, “Just a spar. Blunted blades and everything.”

That icy blue gaze peered down at them, eyes as slits. “You’re both terrible liars.” Damen flinched, and Auguste just laughed.

Laurent crossed his arms and adopted a tone that could not be argued against. “Preparations for the journey are complete. Both of you, wipe the sweat off yourselves and head to the entry for our departure. Damen, you might want to find another shirt.”

Damen huffed and looked down. He really had destroyed it.

“You can have one of my loose ones, it should mostly fit,” Auguste said to Damen. He looked at his brother. “Why the both of us?”

“We’re all leaving. It’s time to empty Acquitart.”

~~~~

At first, Nikandros wanted to take only a small contingent outside of the walls to intercept Damen - just Aktis and Pallas, plus a few other members of the royal guard.

However, if Damianos was to assert his place as the rightful king, he would need at least the support of all the bannermen in Delpha, the whole north preferable. The men at Tarasis were thousands strong, and earning their fealty would go far in convincing the other generals of Damianos’s legitimacy. Damen’s arrival would be a spectacle regardless - Nikandros wanted to pivot that spectacle into loyalty.

Kastor would not give up his claim to the throne easily, Nikandros knew, even if Damen could not anticipate that type of treachery from his own family. Kastor was ruthlessly ambitious in a way that Damen could not understand, because Damen radiated the charisma to rule men. It came as naturally to him as breathing.

Kastor was a boar compared to his brother, but a boar is at its most deadly when cornered.

At midday, Nikandros emptied Tarasis of all soldiers except those necessary to maintain adequate defenses. Thousands of Akielon troops were positioned rigidly, in exact formation, on the plains that bordered the forest. It was a test of their discipline to be certain - Nikandros had not explained the purpose of rousing the battalion, and the order to stand still was contrary to the impulses of warriors armed to fight.

After the third hour of standing motionless, the soldiers had become restless. Nikandros could not blame them. The greenest were actively fidgeting, in direct violation of the order to hold. But even the older soldiers had roaming eyes, and Nikandros felt the reins of control slipping from his hands.

If Damianos did not show himself soon, the ranks would devolve. As much as he believed in Damen’s word that he would return, Nikandros was contemplating an invasion into the forest, to collect his king.

Suddenly, the horns blew, brash and long, and Nikandros whipped his head to the treeline. All the soldiers had come to attention, now that action was imminent.

Nikandros counted a minute of pulse beats before he saw a dark head emerge from the forest.

“Attention!” Nikandros cried. The whole of the Akielon army shouted in unison, followed by an abrupt clatter of shields that caused the birds in the trees to take flight.

He could not wait a moment longer. Nikandros strode across the field to his friend, breaking into a run that flung pebbles into his sandals.

As Nikandros approached, he was surprised to see more men filtering from the trees behind Damen. It was not enough to constitute an effective guard, but some of them were armed and equipped with rough plate armor - a few men even wore full helms. Damen was bare-headed and wore an ornate chest plate decorated with an etched tree, probably a ceremonial piece, but likely the only bit of armor large enough for him in all of Acquitart. It was layered over a deep purple Veretian shirt with exceptionally puffed sleeves. He wore full trousers too, in Veretian custom, though they were too short for him, and his sandaled feet jutted from the leg holes somewhat comically.

His neck was bare. The collar was gone.

Ten paces behind Damen strode a man of average height, lacking any armor, laced tightly into a jacket that looked like a tapestry. A pale blonde braid swung from his uncovered head and was tied at the bottom with a neat bow.

It was an arrogant display, and Nikandros instantly knew him as the beast. Without reptilian features, he was an infuriatingly beautiful man. He possessed the coloration that Damen preferred.

“It has been too long, my friend,” said Damen. He strode forward and clasped both hands on Nikandros’s shoulders, “I have missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, brother,” replied Nikandros, voice thick with feeling. He panted Damen’s back. “You look like you could fly away, with those sleeves.” Nikandros pulled back and bowed deeply. “Exalted.”

Damen exhaled. “I am, aren’t I,” he said.

Unwelcome and without prompting, the beast interjected in Veretian: “Not yet. He needs to claim the allegiance of an army first.” He stepped forward so he was just a few paces from Damen. Nikandros whipped his head sideways to glare at him. 

“But I see that you had the foresight to start that process immediately, Kyros,” The beast gestured to the garrison with his long fingers. It should have been a compliment, but the beast’s insouciant smirk overwrote any of his good intentions.

“You’re shorter as a man, beast,” replied Nikandros with spite.

“My neck is no longer mounted on a swivel.” He smiled in that predatory way of his. “You look to be imitating a beast yourself, Kyros. I’ll bet there are mountain goats envious of your beard.”

“Laurent,” muttered one of the soldiers in a helm, oddly chastising.

It was not a voice that Nikandros recognized from his captivity, not Lazar or Jord or Orlant or Huet. Those men stood farther back, and Nikandros had already caught several winks and waves from a person that he strongly suspected was Lazar. This soldier stood just behind the beast, oddly close. Perhaps his bewitched form had been too large to climb the spiral staircase to the prison tower. Either way, he had revealed much with just one word.

“So it’s true. You’re the lost Veretian prince,” said Nikandros, uncrossing his arms. He looked as if he smelled something rotten. He bowed anyway, though not as deep as he had for Damen. “If you are a guest of Damianos Exalted, then welcome to Akielos, your highness.”

Nikandros’s tone was a touch harder than was appropriate, but Laurent looked surprised and delighted, like the proud owner of an exceptionally clever dog.

“Pleased to be here.”

“You knew?” asked Damen, frantically turning to Nikandros. “How long?”

“Berenger figured it out, not me. After you sent Amille.”

Damen’s eyes flickered to Laurent, who looked impassive and cool as a stone.

“Berenger?” said the soldier in the helm who had spoken before, the one who seemed loyal to Prince Laurent. His voice was raw with shock. “He’s alive?”

“He was captured at Marlas, and became a member of my household after I understood his good character,” said Damen, turning to the soldier and explaining in a friendly manner.

“I’m relieved,” said the soldier, sounding bewildered. “I didn’t know that Akielons allowed war prisoners to live.”

“And how do you know him?” asked Nikandros. If this soldier was permitted to speak so casually to the royalty of two nations, then Nikandros had every right to address him, whoever he was. “Were you on the field at Marlas?”

“Yes,” replied the man.

“Nikandros,” said Damen, “There’s more.”

“I suppose it’s my turn,” said the soldier, as all eyes in the group swung to him.

He lifted the helm from his face, and Nikandros felt the frayed tendrils of a memory trying desperately to connect - the man was familiar, if not in direct recollection, then in the feeling he sparked: surging adrenaline, as if Nikandros stood on the front line of a battle, prepared for the possibility of death.

“This is Prince Auguste of Vere. He survived the duel at Marlas.”

Nikandros drew his blade before anyone could stop him, and forced himself between his king and the starburst prince, the deadliest enemy that Akielos had known in generations.

“Stop!” commanded Damen - his strong forearm held Nikandros back. As much as Nikandros wanted to gut the beast-prince and rid him of that smirk forever, he wanted even more desperately to remove the golden prince's head.

Prince Auguste had not moved or tried to draw his own blade.

“I will explain everything, I promise,” said Damen desperately. “Lower it, Nikandros.”

Nikandros was a soldier, deep in his bones. His loyalty was to the crown and he would not disobey a direct order from his king, especially when the king was a friend. As much as he desired to send these princes back to the realm of the dead, his training was too ingrained. He sheathed his sword violently.

“I will require it,” he said to Damen through gritted teeth, with as much insubordination as he could conjure.

After a pause where the Veretians stared at Nikandros, and Nikandros glared at everyone, Prince Laurent stepped forward. Prince Auguste looked suddenly nervous - he had not flinched when Nikandros drew on him, but the same confidence did not seem to apply when his brother was within striking range of an angry Akielon.

“Well, now that’s settled,” said Prince Laurent nonchalantly, as if their party had finally decided on the menu for dinner. “If we could keep moving towards our destination, Kyros, I would appreciate it. It has been a long walk, and my feet ache.” Prince Laurent’s gaze was level and polite, but he looked to be repressing his own distaste.

“There are some amongst the men who are not used to this type of exertion,” added Damen.

Nikandros noticed for the first time, near the back of the group, a soldier significantly shorter than the others, who seemed dwarfed further by oversized armor. He had the proportions of a child, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot with a grimace. There was also an older man, hair half grey, though he looked spry for his age. He carried an apothecary’s trunk upon his back and was hunching with the effort of balancing it.

“Damianos Exalted, your highnesses of Vere, please follow me.”

~~~~

Nikandros had deployed the army well for Damen’s arrival: the bulk of the men were positioned behind a slight rise in the landscape, so when Damen stepped forward and stood at the head of his forces, he was elevated slightly, and even those men in the back of the formation could see his figure on the hill.

It was Aktis who dropped first. He had seen Damianos grow up, had held the line next to him at Marlas.

“Damianos lives,” he said in an awed voice and kneeled upon the earth.

“Damianos lives,” repeated Nikandros, projecting his voice across the field. He dropped to his knees in fealty.

The army fell in a cascade, whispering: _Damianos lives. Exalted. King._

Damen stood with his back straight and shoulders wide, staring upon the thousands of men who bowed at his name. He waited the appropriate amount of time, as his father would have, and then spoke in his commander’s tone, deep and resonant, the voice of the Prince-Killer who had changed the tide of wars with his blade.

“Rise, honorable warriors of Akielos.”

The men regained their feet and reformed into impeccable lines. All eyes in the army were trained upon Damianos.

“Seasons have passed, and I have longed for Akielos.” His voice boomed across the plains, breaking against the walls of Tarasis in rumbling echoes. “Much has changed in my absence. I return home with the knowledge of threats to our nation,” he gestured beside him, to the small group from Acquitart who stood at a careful distance from the Akielon army. “And threats to our brothers of Vere.”

The army gasped collectively in the form of creaking leather straps, and sandals grinding into the pebbled ground. Damen raised his arm, and the men fell to an unmoving silence.

“The current King of Vere, brother of deceased King Aleron, set a plot in motion years ago to usurp the throne of Vere and to then take Akielos. I know this because I was imprisoned for months by his dark sorcery, and I have met other casualties of his plot.”

Damen turned, and Auguste stepped forward, along with Laurent, behind him and slightly offset.

“Prince Laurent,” said Damen, “And Prince Auguste, of Vere.”

The army bristled like a giant porcupine, with the glinting points of a thousand spears, the rippling of shields, shifting steel. At this moment, it was easy to pick out the older soldiers from the new, the ones who had fought at Marlas versus the ones who had only heard the battle described in song at a feast.

The younger men flashed eyes of open contempt, dared perhaps a snort of breath; the most insolent spat on the ground in open defiance. The soldiers who had been at Marlas stared with hard eyes, moved not a muscle, held their hatred alongside a warrior’s respect for the golden prince, a soldier that had shattered an army of Akielons ten-thousand strong.

Separate from the noise of the army, Damen heard Laurent whispering in rapid Veretian, low and too soft to hear.

Damen raised his arm again, and it took longer this time to attain silence. He waited for it, commanded it with his open palm.

“Warriors of Akielos -” he boomed, “We share a common adversary with our brothers of Vere. The pretender King of Vere tried to kill his own family to clear a path to the throne. He hired raiders to massacre the village of Tarasis and equipped them with the magic to launch repeated attacks upon this army. He attempts to destabilize our nation during a time of great tragedy, when we are all mourning the loss of Theomedes Exalted."

More rattling, more stirring, more gritting of sandals in the dirt. These were grand charges, enough for a declaration of war.

Damen had been preparing this speech for the entire distance from Acquitart, in anticipation of addressing his men for the first time as their king. He also had to convince them to accept an alliance with sworn enemies, risen from the dead. It was a tough note to hit, and Damen only felt moderately successful, judging by the reactions of the men. The only thing keeping them from open revolt was shock, and Damen’s own reputation.

“Damianos Exalted,” said Auguste, his voice rich and warm like bronze in sunlight. He stood tall, not as tall as Damen, but his golden blonde hair caught the late afternoon light and glowed like a crown. He tipped his head at the neck, as was appropriate for a prince addressing a king. The army fell silent.

Damen had not expected the Veretians to speak. Laurent caught his eye for a short moment and nodded almost imperceptibly. _Another one of his plans, then._

Auguste raised his head, turned out at a slight angle so that he was still facing Damen, but also projecting his voice out upon the army. He spoke Akielon fluently, with a lilting Veretian accent that put incorrect stress on certain syllables: “It is only due to the bravery and cunning of Damianos Exalted, that I am standing here today.”

“My uncle has tipped the balance of our nations with his hand, using dark magic and curses,” he continued. “Damianos Exalted broke the curse that confined myself and my brother, and he saved my life, though we once dueled to the death. His honor is a beacon, even amongst a nation of honorable men.”

Damen had barely seen Auguste interact with his men, but he now understood how the prince inspired such deep loyalty, why his starburst guard had protected him to their last breaths at Marlas, as Damianos sheared through their lines. He was effortlessly noble, complimentary without being self-deprecating. He admitted no defeat but made the men feel as if they had accomplished a great victory.

“Because Damianos Exalted was willing to extend his hand and offer aid to Vere, it is only fair that Vere offers something to Akielos in return.”

Auguste turned to Laurent and nodded.

Of the three royals, Laurent had so far drawn the least attention, relegating himself to the side position of a second prince. This changed when he raised his arm, turned his palm skyward, and a jet of orange light, like fire, erupted from his hand, shot into the air, and burst, raining embers like a waterfall.

The army was not happy about the display of magic - these soldiers had fought raiders night after night, many were burned by magic explosives, and they knew of no use for magic except battle. Damen wished, not for the first time, that Laurent had offered up the mechanisms of his plan ahead of time, so Damen could have advised him, or at least been prepared to act appropriately. This miscalculation was of more consequence than second-guessing a kiss.

Suddenly, a horn sounded from the eastern watchtower of Tarasis to indicate movement from the mountain passes. There began a faint rhythm, like the beating of drums, which grew and coalesced into a roar that rolled along the face of the mountain. A single rider appeared, galloping across the head of the pass, a trickle, and then columns of horseflesh thundered down the slope like a living river of warrior and beast, hooves pounding against the stone.

“Tell your men to hold,” said Laurent to Damen, too quiet for the Akielons to hear.

The army was frothing. An unidentified mounted cavalry had been summoned from the mountains by the magic of an enemy prince, right in front of them, and that force was rapidly approaching, just like the raiders that had massacred Tarasis and plagued them, night after exhausting night.

“HOLD -” Damen bellowed when he heard drawing steel. The closest men started at the full force of Damen’s order, and the rest halted mid-motion, swaying in formation.

Nikandros leaned towards Damen, hand on his sword, and spoke low.

“You are certain this is not a slaughter? You trust your blonde Veretian this much?”

Damianos crossed his arms, took a stance that offered no room for argument. “If I am your king, then you will hold,” he said, expression like stone.

Nikandros was furious, but he was loyal to a fault, and stood at attention, watching the riders grow closer and larger.

At least five hundred horses had emptied onto the plains from the mountain roads. It became clear to the men that these were not the raiders they expected: the riders were all women, dressed in furs, and they rode shaggy agile ponies, bred for their ability to turn sharply amongst rocky outcroppings. The bulk of the force stopped at a comfortable distance from the army, creating a square formation, with rows that were less straight than the Akielon infantry.

A smaller retinue broke away and approached the Akielon army, still on horseback. The lead rider was a woman with streaks of grey in her long dark hair, and eyes as black as her horse. Galloping behind her, at least fifty women - some carried large bundles of wood, likely chopped from the forest around Acquitart. Some carried men, gagged and tied like hogs, then lashed to the backs of the ponies.

The lead rider proceeded to where Damianos, Auguste, and Laurent stood at the head of the army. The rest of the women dismounted at a close distance, and curiously, began to clear the ground, creating a large space of silty earth that was free of brush.

The leader came to a stop in front of them. Her flinty stare was the closest match that Damen had ever seen for the ice of Laurent’s gaze.

“We bring the raiding clan,” she said in gruff Veretian, her voice like gravel. “And we have kept their horses.”

Damen would have gasped if he had not been in front of his men. He managed only a peek at Laurent, who betrayed not a single emotion.

“And the payment for our continuing arrangement will be satisfactory?” asked Laurent.

The woman nodded. She wheeled her mount, paused to rake a critical eye over the Akielon forces, then trotted back across the field.

“Damianos Exalted,” said Laurent, and Damen’s heart stuttered at the formal address from Laurent’s lips. He continued, addressing the army in Akielon.

“We know that my uncle - the false King of Vere - was responsible for planning the raid upon Tarasis,” he said slowly, tripping over a few syllables of pronunciation, but with immaculate grammar and syntax. “Until now, however, the men who executed the massacre have remained unpunished.”

Laurent’s voice did not hold the gravitas of Damen’s or the warm honey quality of Auguste’s. His voice sliced through the air like the cry of a hawk, precise and deadly as talons.

“My brother and I are committed to rectifying the sins of a Vere ruled by my uncle. This path starts with justice.”

He gestured across the field. The space on the ground cleared by the female warriors had been layered with cords of wood and then the bodies of the tied men, at least forty. They were dumped unceremoniously on top of one another in a fleshy heap, still alive and fighting against their bonds, able to see, but unable to move beyond impotent thrashing.

“They are clan mercenaries, paid for by my uncle, who killed your people in an attempt to wreck the peace between our nations.”

The women were pouring liquid over the wood and the bodies, causing the prisoners to sputter from their noses. The wind carried the smell of the substance to the Akielon army. It was sharp, incendiary.

“As a show of goodwill between our nations, we give you the men who destroyed Tarasis,” said Laurent to the Akielon army. Turning to Damen, he said, “And we give you flame.”

The women on horseback flared torches to light and stood at the ready, facing Damianos, and waiting.

It became clear to the Akielon army and Damen, all at once: Prince Laurent of Vere had arranged for dozens of men to be burned alive, right in front of them, in fiery retribution.

Damianos could only raise his hand, and let it fall.

The torches dropped. Flames caught on the liquid, then the wood, and then began to melt flesh. The air was filled with screams muffled by gags, and the smell of burning bodies raked the nostrils of the men.

Damen forced himself to stare, watched raider's faces char and fall away from the bone. From his peripheral, he could see Laurent, gaze as vast as the great blue sky, watching death as if it were no more than a passing dalliance, a diversion for a sunny late afternoon. This was the version of Laurent that had cut a man over and over for satisfaction, practically bathing in his blood.

The Akielon army seeped approval and vindication as they looked on. It was a perfectly planned offering, playing to Akielon bloodlust and Akielon honor, all at once. A pyre as a present to temper a burgeoning alliance, everything that Damen could have wanted, arranged on a burning platter. 

When the fire faded to embers, and the last sinews of the dead men ceased to twitch, Auguste stepped forward and addressed Damen once more.

“As an additional show of gratitude to my brothers of Akielos, Vere has arranged protection for Tarasis.” He spread his arms wide and gestured to the hundreds of women on horseback. “The atrocities that occurred in this village will never be repeated. The Red Moon Clan will patrol the passes to the city, and intercept any foe that might try to enter Akielos from the mountains. Your lands will be safe from my uncle.”

Auguste extended his hand to Damianos, just as he had done that morning in the arena. This time, it was with the eyes of thousands of Akielons upon them.

“To Akielos, and to Vere, united against a usurper, allied in friendship and common cause.” 

In his first visible act as a king, Damianos gripped the hand of his former enemy, and shook it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said after like ch5 that we were over halfway done and i was wrong - i'm thinking that it might be 11, maybe 12? dont hold me to it though


End file.
